


Some New Romantic Elvis Looking, For His Priscilla’s Sound

by Pink_and_Velvet



Series: Hold Tight, Onto Daddy’s Bracelets [1]
Category: Duran Duran
Genre: 1980, 70s, A/B/O verse, Baby, Band Fic, Bars and Pubs, Blitz Kids, Boys on film, Crushes, Drinking, Drugs, Falling In Love, Fighting for love, First Kisses, Forming a band, He’s Nigel Okay, In Love For The First Time, Jealousy, Journals, Kisses in the rain, LGBTQ Themes, Loneliness, M/M, Makeup, Masturbation, Music, New wave - Freeform, Nigel - Freeform, Nigel to John, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Other Ships Not Mentioned in Tags, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pining, Prequel, Rain, Rum Runner, Secret Crush, Sexual Content, Sharing Records, Smoking, Too Many Taylors, Weekend Getaways, alternative universe, handjobs, singers - Freeform, starting a band
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-12
Updated: 2020-12-16
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:09:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 35
Words: 39,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26422429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pink_and_Velvet/pseuds/Pink_and_Velvet
Summary: He’s never fit in anywhere. Always too nervous, too shy for confrontation or to stand up for himself. A career in the arts is calling, maybe music really is his true calling. If only he had the perfect singer, to write him his symphony: a first love.That love stains him like the lipstick cherry all over his lens. And look at that, Nigel has no idea just how fast he’s falling.Set in the Rum Runner, Spring 1980. With a very important band audition, to rock Nigel’s whole world forever.
Relationships: Andy Taylor & John Taylor, Simon Le Bon/John Taylor (Duran Duran)
Series: Hold Tight, Onto Daddy’s Bracelets [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1573288
Comments: 105
Kudos: 32





	1. Nigel’s Future Is As Good As Sealed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Each chapter will have a song relevant to the time period and the character of Nigel himself, as Duran are in their very early days here!
> 
> Chapter title obviously taken from the infamous _Making Plans For Nigel _by XTC!__

_Late April,_ _1980_

_Rum Runner, Birmingham_

Running, rain pelting all around him as he paddled through the stormy streets, being swept by the wind, caught off guard, skipping puddles and stepping straight into them: he dashed through to the upper end of Broad Street. The never ending, too many miles long, centre of his universe, Broad Street.

They had a rehearsal today, a very stormy Monday, April 28th. They’d had a great time celebrating his drummer’s twentieth birthday that weekend, though now they had to get back to band business. Thankfully the club owners, The Berrows, were out and had left them a spare key. They were free to use the space, come and go as they pleased, as long as they kept the place clean.

He hadn’t known what hit him. The ride on the 45 bus was stranger than usual, he had been mercilessly pelted by a puddle as the bus screeched into gear. Nodding to the driver, who met him with a grunt, he paid his fee and shuffled to the top deck. To the back of the top deck.

Head down, hands wrapping themselves around his shivering torso: he had learnt long ago to bury himself there. At the back, out of sight, out of anyone else’s line of fire. Thankfully, the top deck was near deserted, save for some school girls up front. They were only young, perhaps fourteen, he figured as he listened to their high pitched giggles and cries. And some young couple, kissing without a care in the world. He envied that, that confidence. As they helped to lighten his mood somewhat.

Then he turned to the side, watching the rain drops run down the large windows; running in all directions, at different speeds. With a short breath from his ruby stained lips, he placed a cool hand on the even colder surface; wincing as he made contact. The sudden breath here, steaming up the window further.

He batted his lashes, slightly heavy from the clump of mascara that was surely running, once then twice. Before removing his open palm from the window, pressing himself deep into the damp seat, leather brushing roughly up against his back. Closing his eyes, he let out a small sigh; with a mental checklist of today’s rehearsal forming in his tired mind. Swirling through it, tiring him further.

Perhaps the drive was short, a few stops and he was hurrying down the slippery metal steps; headed to the open door. Perhaps the drive was long, he had drifted in and out; not focusing on who joined him up there, who bid him a silent farewell with a ding of the button and opening of the double doors.

Back to now, thoroughly drenched, darkened mousey brown hair plastered to his pasty face; the lanky body was faced with those familiar golden gates, a dull sign in the shape of a dashing lightning bolt turned off, and another. Which should be gleaming in a striking cobalt blue, lighting up against the silver mirror below it.

The _Rum Runner_ at 273 Broad Street, Birmingham Central.

Panting softly, taking a hand through his heavy locks, he awaited those gates to open. To stumble inside, shake himself off like a wet dog with a small giggle; to get to work, bass in hand.

Though today, he was reminded by the lump in his throat, would be different. There was a new man coming, a _singer_. A whole new wave of auditions, the band needed to be impressed. However his skin was alight with feeling, he blamed the cold, of assurance. After all these years, band mates come, lost faith, then gone – those gates were shimmering, radiating hope that finally today, if not today then never, today they would find the one.

  
Nigel himself, glasses steaming over as his clammy hands ran up the golden gates, Nigel John Taylor himself would find the _one_.

The world was making plans for him, that much he was sure of.


	2. Nigel’s Future Is As Good As Sealed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from Steve Harley & Cockney Rebel’s _Make Me Smile. _💓__

He was the last to arrive this time, wringing out what he could of the soaked denim jacket. Drying off what he could with a hoard of paper towels from the club’s grotty bathroom. Tossing away another used paper towel, he caught sight of himself in the mirror.

He was alone, shielded gaze running up his shivering frame. It was unusual to be this cold in April, sure, though the weather was nothing new. All the drab, the drear, was familiar to him. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t crave the getaway, the sunlight beaming down on him in a place where nobody knew his name – where nobody would have the _chance_ to learn his name.

With a shake of head, he refocused. Bleary brown eyes blown wide, they raked over the stripy red and maroon jumper he wore. It was a favourite of Nigel’s though it was nothing special. Then down to his faded denim jeans with the teeny hole by the knee, how he wished he wasn’t wearing them. Wishing for a fabric that was tighter, more striking; one that looked like he had money and had earned whatever it was he was wearing. Wearing with pride.

Though for now, with a huff, it had to do. Shrugging, he wiped the last of the wayward mascara from his face, using the makeup wipes he pawned from his best friend and keyboardist: figuring that for the moment, he’d have to go au natural. His hands were still too shaky from the cold, to try and apply any new colour.

He figured he’d just have to deal with it.

Thankfully the lipstick stayed though, he noted running his tongue over the lipstick cherry.

With a small yelp, Nigel leant forward involuntarily, as the bathroom door behind flew open. He bumped head, well, lips first into the mirror, leaving a small stain. Leaving a small lipstick stain, cherry all over the lens. And look at that, he had no idea that he soon would be falling.

He only caught a whiff of the man, whoever he may be, only a small glimmer of what he was sure was striking blonde hair. A blonde whirlwind wearing… pink?

Shaking his head; the flush from a far toilet stall shaking him from his daze; Nigel was more then ready to run from there, shyness ready to stunt him again as a dust cloud on the rise. Though before he had the chance—

“Oof! Oh I, I’m uh,” he collided with another body, shimmying to get around him in the small space. “Sorry!”

They didn’t say anything, hands wrapped around Nigel to stop him from toppling over. Slowly they withdrew, not that Nigel could see. His frames had been flung from his face, he had lost his sight.

With a pained whine, they separated and Nigel stood there helpless. Helpless, or so he thought.

He’d be kidding himself if he didn’t admit to the moan. To his eyes dropping closed, enhanced lashes fanning, lips parting and head tipping back ever so slightly. Two large and soft hands were on his face, sliding his _NHS_ prescription frames back onto his face, ever so slowly. With care, perhaps, Nigel didn’t know.

Those hands began to retreat, brushing against his smooth cheeks, before settling on his bony shoulders, still damp from before.

“Waitin’ for the Sound Of Thunder.” They sang; voice small and breathy, drawing his attention.

Only then did Nigel register where he was, where they both were. Only then did his gaze fall open, mere inches, mere breaths from another man. Another man who was smiling softly, beady blue eyes shining unlike anything Nigel had ever seen before. They glimmered like oceans, holding secrets, hiding treasures; sparkling in their own spotlight.

The lips before him were parted, they were panting slightly. They held his gaze, vulnerability amplified through the thick lenses, they held his gaze and kept it.

They broke away to wash their hands, Nigel watched as they soaped up their fingers. Long, thin, gorgeous. Nigel watched as they leant past him, hunting for a towel. Nigel could only breathe in deeper, those hands were ever so close to him, body stretching past, contorting, body beginning to retreat.

Those lips were moving, they were talking and yet Nigel couldn’t hear a thing. He was trapped in a trance of sorts, one that surprisingly smooth voice couldn’t penetrate through.

“I’m sorry, could you… y’know, uh, repeat that?” He stammered out, gaze falling to his feet.

There was a lovely bellow of laughter, Nigel straightened back up.

“I said,” he teased, drawing out the syllable, “what’s your name?”

“It’s… it’s umm…”

He panicked. His pulse was rising and suddenly his tongue was too big for his mouth.

There was another chuckle, hearty, full of strength. “Nice to meet you _umm_.” They laughed, music to his ears.

“Oh no!” He blurted, pulse again soaring. “It’s… it’s uh, you know…”

Trailing off, his shielded browns landed on those striking blues again, they were egging him on, gleaming through his ragged breath.

“John!” He babbled, surprising himself.

_John?_

“John?” They stretched it out, testing and trying it. “Hmm, John.”

“Y-yeah… it’s _John_.”

_Oh well, looks like I’m going by my middle name now –_ he thought to himself, cringing.

“John.” They confirmed a final time, a stupidly huge and stupidly white smile coating that handsome face. “I like it, it fits well in a band. Like John Deacon.”

“Yeah… like John Deacon.” He replied, wincing. _Nigel was much more original, wasn’t it?_

“You’re the…” they bought their hands up; Nigel figured they were pretending to play the air-bass. His favourite bass.

“Bassist, yeah.”  
  


“Why’s that, suck on guitar?!”

They hollered, Nigel blushed deep.

“So yeah,” they picked up on where they left off, noting the downtrodden look of the tall, lanky bassist. “John is _the_ name for a bassist. John Deacon of _Queen_ , as we’ve already discussed. Or John Paul Jones, John Entwistle…” they broke off laughing. “John is _the_ name for a bassist, glad you’re on board with that, man!” Those hands were up in the air, eyes bulging, they were hopping too? Prancing?

Nigel shrunk back; wincing.

“Just wait until you meet our drummer. Our real _Queen_ member.”

“Sorry, what?”

Nigel paused, before waving him off with a crooked smile.

“Erm, alright. Pleasure to meet you then, _Johnny_.” There was a final glance, another dashing smile, and they were gone. Out of the door like a blonde whirlwind; turns out he was right about that.

Nigel’s – _John’s?_ \- eyes followed that of the stranger, skin tingling with where he had touched him. Balanced him, straightened him up. He could’ve sworn, that he was still blushing, that he could still feel where those comforting hands had landed on his face; cupping his flaming cheeks, before resting on his bony shoulders.

The moment had been broken with the whole name fiasco though, shy as ever, Nigel shook it off for the moment. Perhaps he should check in with Nick, his best friend throughout his teenage years and co-founder of the band. See what Nick thought to it. Always see what Nick thought.

Turning around, having no idea how much time had passed between them; he caught sight of the little mess of the mirror.

His lipstick cherry. If only he had any idea, just how fast he was falling.


	3. Invade My Dreams, Alright

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from the original _Girls On Film _with Andy Wickett.__
> 
> _  
>  _Yeah, I know he was already going by ‘John’ when Nigel met Andy and damn is it odd to have the guitarist call him by his real first name but for the sake of the story..._   
>  _

“Hey, hey Nige!” Nigel practically ran face first into Andy, his recently hired pint sized guitar hero from Newcastle. “You ‘ave to see this fag, right? Think’s he’s _Elvis_ or some shit.”

“Who?”

Andy pointed straight into the sleazy haze of the stage; Nigel tried to follow.

“Looks it abit too. Kinda podgy, weight round ‘is face. Gor blimey, bet he stuffs his gob with chips non stop!” Andy babbled, laughing to himself, before strutting to his open guitar case.

“Yeah… yeah I,” Nigel gulped, talking to no one in particular. “I’ll bet he does.” Now he was _searching_ for him, whoever this mystery ‘Elvis’ fella was.

This mystery Elvis, who had strut into the _Rum Runner_ a mere two hours ago, already they were silenced and caught in his trance.

He was a goddamn myth. Born out of legend, perhaps. No one could decode him, the facts from the fiction. This man had undoubtedly rocked Nigel’s little world, already. He was a minor deity in the eyes of the soon to be leather wearing, ruffled shirt, beholder.

He was perfection, celestial, with a mic in hand or not. There was this Elvis-like quality that he was really starting to see after Andy pointed it out, or something, radiating from him. As soon as his plush lips caressed the mic, his own rendition of _Steve Harley and_ _Cockney Rebel’s Make Me Smile_ running free, the song was a dear favourite of the bassist’s; he was caught. Enrapt, enamoured. He’d never heard the song like this before, all slowed down and tentative.

Nigel knew he was in and in deep. For the long run, it was as though the man was guaranteeing him that. The success, a reason to make it big.

Nigel was stumped, well and truly, caught in the crossfire the mythical creature seemed to ignite. Up and down his shielded eyes ran only to have beady blues glaring straight back through him. Studying him, as if he was searching for the _Nigel_ he apparently would never know.

“What’s his name?” Nigel whispered, scanning a roster of possible singers, scribbled poorly in near illegible handwriting.

“Beats me.” His drummer Roger replied, barely able to tear his own gaze from the rockstar singer guy.

Nigel scanned and scanned, looking for the most outrageous and pretentious name on their list. _Found it._

The myth was that he really was called… _that_. It was poetic, symbolic of something much more avant guard perhaps? It was certainly a name to behold, one that wouldn’t be forgotten. Unlike Nigel himself; where would he get in the modern world having a name such as that?

_XTC_ had answered that for him a few months prior, though this young Nigel would never be happy with a whole future in _British Steel._

He was yet to believe it, he was yet to justify himself and meet the myth: the all inspiring, Elvis style stage persona. What was the man trying to hide behind with such a distinctive name? There had to be something. A track record of sorts? With the punk scene, with the ladies?

But then again, what could Nigel say? He swung a quick glance to his fellow Taylors, jaws set to hit the floor.

There were plenty of rumours about this man already flooding Broad Street but, there was one in particular that really grated on Nigel. _Boys. Boys and their toys. Boys and their boy toys…_ It grated on him much more than it should have which alarmed him, he wanted to shut it away and bury it deep with his own confused little mind.

The man was _different_ , primed and pristine with wandering eyes and a perfect front page worthy pout to match. On Nigel, no, on _John_. That’s what he had said, John, in the bathroom; flaky and limbs flailing about. His name was John.

Those eyes darkened and those lips parted. Then; there was a flicker of a smirk before they licked those pastel lips. They smiled, baring beautifully white teeth and suddenly, stumbling over anything and everything, Nigel couldn’t speak for himself anymore.

  
He hadn’t even asked the man his name, when he had the chance too, in that bathroom. 

Shaking his head, the thoughts were becoming clearer to him. Or blurry, depends on who you ask. His vision clouded over, the clouds in his head trying to part. He had never been sure of his preferences, though was somewhat alarmed to be leaning a certain way. A more masculine way, a way to combat the effeminate side to him; the makeup he wore and the hair products he used.

He also had a glaring secret of his own; which practically ensured him needing a man someday. A man by his side, an alpha male, to take care of his little omega self. To devour him, to make something of him. Most importantly, to _protect_ him.

What this man’s fascination with him was, he couldn’t figure it out for the life of him. Not this quick anyways, they’ve only played one song and heard him sing randomly perhaps five times. Though surely there was something, those blasted baby blue eyes were roaming all over Nigel, signalling him out; silently asking for the spotlight to come down onto him too.

As though there were no other lads in the room. A private show, for the two of them. For Nigel and… and…

“The name’s Bon. Simon Le Bon.”

“What are you, James Bond?!” Andy cackled, sending Nigel off.

The gasp was universal, laughable, the four men had jaws dropping and eyes broadening as the man before them only smirked harder.

“What you, you bastards wanna see my license or something?!”

_License to kill, huh Bon?_

“And yes, I _am_ of age, thank you very much!” Le Bon blurted, laughing to himself. Drawing a whole new crowd, somehow. Rebel moth to his punk flame, somehow.

He shoved the microphone back to Nick, who didn’t take it, letting it drop to the floor. The feedback was harsh and that only had the man — _Le Bon, what in bleeding hell?_ — cackling harder.

Nigel would be damned if he joined in, by the death glare Nick shot his way. Whoops, he had already giggled.

“One more. Try this.” Nigel watched as Nick brandished the familiar tattered and rumpled sheet of yellow paper. Lyrics fading, lyrics in dire need of saving.

“Girls In Film?” Le Bon perked up, something naughty creeping across his face. “Sounds raunchy.”

“No, not anymore, it’s now Girls _On_ Film.” Nigel insisted, not looking at him. Surprising himself by talking. “My idea.”

With a bow, no man who had auditioned for them had ever _bowed_ Nigel’s way – he noted with an oddly pleasant pain in his chest, he took to the stage again.

This time he wasn’t alone. The four of them: Nick, Roger, Andy and Jo- _Nigel_ himself; took to their places. Ready to rattle off the familiar, though still in the works, surefire hit.

The drums kicked in, setting the tempo for the singer upfront. Nigel watched him, long and lean legs wrapped in a questionable pink fabric; with a tambourine at his side. Getting a feel for the track, swaying slightly, bashing the tambourine lightly against his thigh.

Andy counted Le Bon in, singing their lyrics himself; letting the bloke have a feel for the vibe.

Nigel also missed his cue, cursing softly under his breath.

“Black car, black car. Didn’t I warn you? Black star, black star. Clothes like a bombshell.” He rattled off, holding the fading paper before those striking blue eyes. “Ain’t that shit _racist?!”_

The voice was fading, Nigel noted with a sigh.

“Broken nails beneath the varnish! Larger than life and are they in line with—” Trying to focus on his bass playing, fingers running up and down, he found that he couldn’t quite ignore the situation up front. “Wait, wait wait wait.”

The band grew to an unholy stop, muttering things about the abrupt ending softly.

Squinting, dropping his bass, Nigel watched as Le Bon whirled around, chains clinking on his hip. He crossed his arms, pouting; Nigel could tell that he was rolling the words about in his mouth.

“Okay yeah, girls on film _do_ look better and _they invade my dreams_ and all too but- Christ.”

He wanted to tell the band that their words sucked, Nigel was sure. And honestly, he didn’t mind that. They needed a real writer anyways, one who wouldn’t interfere with the backing tracks. Only enhance them, make them fit his words.

“Mind if I,” Le Bon practically skipped to his bag, one that Nigel hadn’t even noticed was just sat there; beckoning _him_ over too. He brandished something, Nigel could’ve sworn there was an angel sighing, a book. A lyric book. His lips dropped open.

“Yeah, sure. Let’s see what’cha got!” Andy, his newfound guitarist from up North, was first to Le Bon’s side. Looking through what the singer apparently had to say.

Nigel abandoned his bass, stalking over to hide behind Roger’s drums. He watched in awe, as Andy and… _oh damnit, what was his first name again? Prince Charming?_ Andy and… _Le Bon,_ worked things through.

A band break was called, Nigel was first out the door for a fag.


	4. Take Me Higher Till I’m Shooting A Star

Within half an hour, he was called back inside. He didn’t care that it was still pouring out there, Nigel hid under the club sign, thankfully there was a small roof to keep him somewhat dry.

“I wanna try something, if you guys don’t mind?” For the first time, it seemed that he was shy.

There was a sense of insecurity, as though Le Bon was stepping on their toes. Which he kind of was, though Nigel would be lying if he said he wasn’t intrigued.

“I want you guys to do the same thing, maybe slow the tempo for me ever so slightly. Gimme a chance to find the groove.”

There was a snigger, it was from Andy surely. Andy, who Nigel could tell, had been refraining so hard from taking the mick with those leopard print trousers.

With a sigh, “alright, this is your last shot, Simon.” Nick barked, tinkering with his keys.

“Simon! That’s it, Simon!”

Simon turned to glare, “what’s that?”

Nigel blushed, suddenly finding his feet very interesting.

Roger kicked the track off, Nigel followed his rhythm.

“See them walking hand in hand, across the bridge at midnight.”

There was a mutual gasp.

“Head’s turning as the lights flashing out are so bright. Then walk right out to the fall line track, take it Ands!”

_Ands? Did he really just—_

“There’s a camera rollin’ on ‘er back. On ‘er back!” The pint sized guitarist pitched in, harmonising _perfectly_. Nigel was floored.

Another breath. “And I sense the rhythm hummin’ in a frenzy, all the way down her spine.”

_Chorus time. Here goes nothing, Taylor boys._

“Girls On Film!” Simon sang, belted. “Girls On Film.”

There was another mutual guffaw, Roger was smiling and Nick was beginning to bob. That’dbe as much ‘dancing’ they’d get out of the keyboardist; though it really was a nice sight.

“Girls On Film, two minutes later! Girls On Film.”

The next line was directed right at Nigel, having him touching his own ruby lips in both embarrassment and… and…

“Lipstick cherry all over the lens and _he’s_ falling.”

And… he had no idea.

Turns out Le Bon was a complete foreign object; his vocals were mad, delightfully unpredictable. His stage persona was wild, he’d shimmy and prance about. When he held his tambourine, it was perfection. He had talented hands and the body boys dreamed of, clad in skintight pink leopard print trousers. A questionable fashion sense perhaps but he most certainly knew how to make an entrance.

“Take one last glimpse into the night. I’m touching close, I’m holding bright.”

Then, things slowed right down.

“Holding tight.”

Like a film, all eyes were on Nigel. The spotlight, the front man, who was creeping towards him, screeching down the mic.

“Shadows in a whisper, I’m coming closer.”

Tormenting him, daring him to interact. To sing along, to lose himself in the beat.

“Take me higher ‘till I’m, _John,”_ he breathed, rattling off the three final words as words. Spoken, voice tickling Nigel’s chest. Ever so close to him that he could almost touch him, reach out and touch— “Shooting a star.”

Le Bon had star quality, potential dribbling down all over what was surely six feet of pure _manly_ man.

“I’m shooting,” a deep breath, “a star!”

Nigel’s heart was in his throat.

“A _starrrrrr_ , oh woah!”

Le Bon and Andy had harmonised perfectly. Nigel and Roger held the rhythm; nodding to each other when the tempo was met. Nick, the harshest critic; was smiling. _A miracle!_

Nodding over and over like Andy was, they could agree it seemed.

Nick broke the news, Nigel could’ve broken down.

Le Bon was in. No, Simon - _it’s a first name basis, Taylor_ \- Simon was in.

Hands down, Simon was in. Lipstick cherry coating Ni- _John’s_ lens. If only he had any idea, like Simon sang, just how fast he was falling.


	5. Dance Away The Heartache

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from Roxy Music’s _Dance Away _.__  
>  _  
>  _This chapter is a real favourite of mine, ever so soft and sweet!_  
> _

“We really can’t keep meeting like this, can we?!”

“Oh, bollocks!” Nigel cursed, hand slipping and now he had a very long and infuriating black kohl line running down his right cheek. “Jeez, Simon.”

“Sorry, not!” He was laughing, clamping a hand on Nigel’s bony shoulder.

Nigel straightened up, biting his lip and withdrawing his gaze from the mirror before them. Again, there they both stood in the bathroom of the _Rum Runner;_ Nigel more than a little embarrassed and another make up fiasco gone rogue.

“We really can’t keep meetin’ like this, it’s incredibly unsanitary.”

Barking out a little laugh, “you’ve been ‘ere all but a week! We haven’t had much chance to meet any place else, you know.”

He conceded the point, smirking. “That I do.”

Nigel was again gnawing at his bottom lip. Better that than his cuticles, he figured. That was the ultimate tell tale sign of his nervousness: though he was starting to grow more comfortable about their fifth band member, more… _fond_.

“I’ve been meaning to ask, Johnny,” his voice dropped, as did his gaze, “the name.”

Nigel stiffened.

“I like it. I really do but uh, can’t place it for the life o’ me. What does it mean?”

He fumbled over his words, though he had recited them a good fifty times before: to band members come and gone, selling them and their sound.

“Jane Fonda, 1968. It’s a film, a favourite film of mine an’ Nick’s y’know?”

“It is?” Those eyes broadened.

“Yeah. A cheesy sixties science fiction film. _Barbarella_.”

“Oh!” He grinned. “Like the club across the way, right?”

“Not exactly. But yeah, you ain’t wrong.” Nigel cocked his head, smiling softly. “ _Barbarella: Queen Of The Galaxy_. She runs around with a ray gun in next to nothin, you know?”

“Oh Good Lord.” There was a laugh, a real merry and infectious giggle. “Cheesy indeed, Johnny.”

“The _Orgasmatron_.” He blurted.

“What?”

“Nothing!” Panicking, Nigel prayed to change the subject. Nodding, trying to hide the smile, “yeah… but anyways. It fits right? Our band name? The name’s after the evil Doctor.”

_If only I knew how to correctly spell it_ – he didn’t say.

There was another smile, another childish heart fluttering in the bassist’s bony chest.

“You said, it’s a favourite of Nick’s.”

_Trust him to pick up on that._

Nigel flinched, fighting for his gaze to land on that of the figure before him. Thankfully, not in leopard print trousers this time. No pink.

“About Nick. He’s really a bit of a, uh, _character_ isn’t he?” He continued; sniggering.

“How d’ya mean?” Nigel figured he knew where this was headed:

“Is he, you know, a faggot? Might as well be blunt, know what I mean?”

Nigel was howling, a sound that hadn’t dropped from his lips in a very long time.

“Or would you rather have this conversation away from the bogs. I would.”

“Yeah, yeah right.” His heart surely skipped another childish beat, there was a hand on his arm.

Next thing Nigel knew was that he was being pretty much shepherded out the bathroom door; straight for the bar.

“What’ll it be, Johnny?” Simon asked, ever so close, leaning atop the infamous triangle top bar ever so closely.

  
  


He flushed, the glasses definitely didn’t help to hide it. Thankfully the sleazy bar light did. “Uh, I’m not really, you know, uh—”

“— Much of a drinker? Alright then. Rum and coke? Orange?”

Nigel nodded, whichever.

They gathered their drinks, disappearing to a table. The Runner was alight, pasty face drunks all over each other on the floor. Men and women in makeup, daring but fashion forward frills, punks and goths alike. Nigel loved these nights, seeing the dance floor so packed; so alive and kicking. He giggled into his drink, accidentally blowing a very not so hot bubble or two through his straw; catching Simon’s eye.

Simon’s eye, which he could’ve sworn, hadn’t left his form at all.

**_Yesterday, when it seemed so cool.  
When I walked you home, kissed goodnight._ **

Nigel stopped dead in his tracks, knowing it was Nick’s DJ set on tonight. There had to be some Roxy in there, there just had too.

**_I said, "It's love", you said, "Alright."_ **

“I _love_ this song!” Simon cackled, taking a drink. Nigel wasn’t sure what it was but it smelt damn good.

“You, you know, you do? A Ferry fan?” He asked, hopeful.

He nodded, Nigel took a sip. Trying ever so hard to not let his inner fanboy out.

“Shall we?”

“Eh? Shall we what?”

There was a twinkle in those gleaming blue eyes, _sapphire_ – Nigel decided, something devilish.

“Dance away the _heartache!_ Like Ferry says so.”

“Oh no,” Nigel blushed; downing the rum and coke faster than he really should’ve. “I,” he hiccuped, “we, _we_ don’t dance.”

Smirking, “who’s ‘we’ Johnny?”

_Johnny? Oh damn, right._

“Us, our band. None of us can, you know, da— gah!”

**_All together, all alone.  
All at once my whole world had changed._ **

Without another breath, or chance to collect himself, Nigel’s lanky ass limbs were being shepherded straight to the already packed dance floor, two forceful hands on his hips to guide him, to make him stay.

“Hey! _Hey_.” His voice dropped, gruff.

**_Now I'm in the dark, off the wall.  
Lit the strobe light up the wall._ **

****

Now there they were, dancing away the loneliness, the fear, as the sultry vocals dropped and bongos filled the club.

Swirling about in the heat, the steam, Nigel _closed his eyes and danced till dawn._ With Simon, right before him, mere inches from his parted lips. They went slow, agonisingly slow, feeling the rhythm; letting the beat flood their veins.

Nigel was grinding, oddly, rocking in time. Simon was right before him, arms spread to beckon him into his space. He clambered forward, laughing hysterically as he tripped.

**_Dance away the heartache. Dance away the tears._ **

****

Those huge hands were wrapped around his waist, as together they boogied, jived, grooved: whatever Nigel wanted.

“That’s it, you’re getting it, you lanky sod!” Simon grinned, thrusting his hips.

Nigel was laughing so hard; having already given himself the hiccups from rushing his drink, into Simon’s slightly sweaty neck.

**_Dance away the heartache. Dance away the fear._ **

****

They didn’t leave the dance floor for what felt like hours, only for a quick drink, to swipe the sweat; or to shuffle to the side when a bigger crowd demanded more dance space. They were hooked, Simon’s arm around Nigel’s neck; laughing and giggling as loud or as low as they wanted. Whispering sweet nothings into each other’s ear, commenting on the music, Nick’s tracks, on the band, on tomorrow’s rehearsal plans…

“You know, I’d love to take a look at those records Nick’s got sometime. And yours.”

“You would?” Nigel sounded surprised, before pressing himself closer into Simon’s strong frame. “Maybe you could, you should… umm, Simon, maybe _we_ could…” Nigel trailed off, embarrassment flushing on his pasty skin.

“ _Dance away the fear_ , at your place, yes.” He breathed. No, sang, sang softly.

Nigel’s heart was in his stomach. Things were rising, or was that just his body heat?

“Besides Johnny, I have questions about Nick I need answering.”

“Nick? What about… oh.” He had completely forgotten about that.

Was Simon after Nick? Was he after Nick and wanted his way with Nick’s best friend? To get in Nigel’s good books first? That definitely seemed more plausible than Simon wanting to spend more time with him, chilling in his bedroom, vibing to a Bowie classic.

That made perfect sense.

“Tell me,” he coughed out, voice dropping low, “what d’ya want to know ‘bout Nicky?”

“Nicky?!” Simon’s laughter was hysterical, almost. Then, sensing the downtrodden look of the bassist beside him, he stopped laughing. “Your place, whenever you want. Then I’ll ask away.”

Japan’s _Quiet Life_ was stirring. The familiar harsh ‘Boys’ pelting the club dance floor, strobe lights painting them in the neon haze.

“Umm, okay?”

The date was set, they’d welcome May 1980 with a date— _no, a what?!_ — a gathering, at Nigel’s place.

He was throwing up a little in his mouth over that thought. Or was that the rum?


	6. The Cowboys Take Position In The Bushes And The Grass

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from Squeeze’s _Cool For Cats. ___

Following a successful rehearsal that afternoon, Nigel and Simon caught the infamous 45 bus route back to Nigel’s place. On the way he couldn’t help but point out a few favourite locations as the double decker cruised through Edgbaston and Kings Norton on the far end of Brum, closer to the city; straight through to Kings Heath and their change at the Maypole Island.

Nigel felt giddy, there even was a teeny sense of pride when Simon didn’t rib him for still stocking the shelves at _Sainsbury’s_ , he had a good few mates there though he kept himself to himself. Patrick came to mind – _wonder if he’s working today?_ They were about the same age and both had a love for the bass, it’s a shame they had never really played together and their paths didn’t cross that much.

He pointed out shops nearby, where once he would hang with his old pals David Twist and Andy Wickett, other band mates come and gone. Though he realised quickly that he shouldn’t drown on about the singers before Simon too much, he was already losing his attention.

“I think, Johnny,” Simon began, Nigel met his gaze, “this is the most you’ve spoken to me. You’re really quite chatty when ya want to be, aren’t you?!” He giggled as Nigel was blushing, poorly hiding it behind his sleeve.

They had been sat side by side, at the back of the bus, now ready to disembark.

“Why do you do that?” Simon asked; practically jumping off of the step onto the concrete. “Oh bollocks!”

And then they were running, Nigel’s good for nothing lanky limbs making it surprisingly easy to keep up with Simon. The rain was pelting them, they were both set to be soaked through within a few more seconds.

“How far to your place? What road is it?” Simon yelled, voice still dulled by the heavy rain and winds surrounding them.

Figure cast dark beneath the grey clouds and hail - _it’s hailing?!_ – Nigel aptly yelled back: “round the corner! 34 Simon Road!”

Simon. Simon Road.

Simon stopped dead in his tracks, turning to face him with a snigger. “Simon Road, eh?”

Nigel giggled, poorly burying it in his sleeve.

“Why do you do that?” He was prompted again, before having his frosty fingertips enrapt in Simon’s, rushing down the empty streets.

“Do what?!”

“That, Johnny. With your hands, cov’rin’ your mouth when you laugh?”

“Oh, I… I do that?” His cheeks were surely strawberry red now. “I’ll tell ya’s inside, alright. There!”

A final dash up the street, Nigel was already fumbling for his keys in very soggy flared jean pockets. And very ripped pockets.

He shoved the key in the lock, practically shivering; as together they practically fell through the front door. A harsh gust of wind pushed them in, pushed Nigel in, pushed Simon right into him, so their damp torsos were brushing and bumping into each other. Nigel broke away, forcing the door shut with a grunt.

“There, good lord.”

Simon slipped off his leather boots without being asked. Nigel smiled at that, removing what was left of his suede ones, placing them next to that of the singer’s on the doormat.

He watched intently, as Simon studied the small corridor. The house wasn’t much, it was on the small side but it was homely, full of warmth and Nigel knew it to be welcoming. His mother Eugene ‘Jean’ Taylor had taken much pride in making this place their own.

“Nice place you got here, Johnny.” Simon was somewhat wringing out his hair as he said it, provoking a small laugh from the bassist. “Much better then the hole I’m in.”

“… The _hole?_ What does that mean?” Nigel asked, grabbing Simon’s jacket to toss it somewhere that it could dry.

“Didn’t Andy tell you?” He shot back, walking towards the bannister. _Oh fuck, the baby photos!_ “We’ve just found a place in Moseley, near Nick ain’t it?”

Nigel was too busy concentrating on just where Simon was headed, getting flustered, baby photos creeping into frame. “Eh, what? Moseley?”

Simon rattled off the address, Nigel winced.

“Ooh yeah, red light district. I’m, you know Simon, I’m sorry that’s all you could get.”

Simon span around, spritely as ever. “No, don’t be. It’ll be fun for us. Plus it’s closer to you guys, instead of the University.”

“Univer—” Nigel was cut off by his ‘awwww baby!’

“Look how cute you were!”

_Were?!_

Simon giggled, pointing to the very young and chirpy baby Nigel. Dressed in a white jumper, with socks that had to be rolled down because they were far too long, teeny shorts and shoes with tacky buckles on them. His hair was gleaming blonde and something off camera had caught his eye. He was smiling beautifully.

“And here!” He cackled, beckoning Nigel up to inspect the photo. “Weymouth?”

Nigel shook his head, reading the inscription: “Weston Super-Mare, 1963.” His voice was fond, memories coming back from the photo albums his mother treasured upstairs. “I was nearly three, sat in a big hole I’d dug in the sand. Very _not_ proud of meself, as ya can see!”

He giggled again, ever so shy. Bringing his hand up to cover his face again, though this time it was swatted away.

“Hey!” They we’re finally moving up the stairs. “Why’d you do that?”

Simon pressed him into the wall, near the top step; Nigel prayed he wouldn’t slip and tumble down atop of him. Or beneath him.

_Ahem. Or…_

“You shouldn’t hide that smile, Johnny.” He began, voice firm and strong. “It’s really beautiful. You should be embarrassed more often, you wear the colour _red_ well.” He winked, the cheeky sod _winked_ at him.

“Red’s me favourite colour.” Nigel gulped audibly, before smiling; full and bright. He didn’t try to hide his wonky front teeth that time.

“There ya go, all natural!”

“You _bugger_.” He murmured, blushing with force under Simon’s hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little note on Patrick.
> 
> Patrick is a true old friend of my mother’s, they worked together in Brum back in the early nineties. Though I’ve never met the man and probably never will, I can’t be sure he wasn’t lying when he used to talk to her endlessly. About his days stocking shelves alongside a scrawny teen in 77/78 who really made it big in the eighties, slapping that bass...


	7. I’m Floating In The Most Peculiar Way

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from Bowie’s _Space Oddity. ___
> 
> _  
>  _Time for some background info on the new band hunk!_   
>  _

Time had simply flown by, or seized to exist perhaps. There they both lay, in Nigel’s tiny bedroom, sprawled out on his ruby carpet with the record player out, hot chocolate mugs long discarded. Bowie’s _Space Oddity_ was spinning around again, Nigel quickly learnt that Bowie was a mutual favourite musician.

Not that Simon could see that grin now painting his spotty face, they were both lying on their backs; staring up at the water stains on the ceiling. Simon’s hands were behind his head, exposing the tender underarms and muscle. Nigel noted, shyly.

“This is a damn comfy jumper, thanks for loaning it me for the night.”

“Well yeah, you know I wouldn’t want you _wet_ — oh fuck!” They both chuckled at the innuendo.

“Of course you would, Johnny. Everybody would. Someday chicks across the _world_ will.” Simon stated, smirking to himself. Again, he was forthcoming and full of confidence – something Nigel really envied.

“Sorry it’s a bit of a, you know—”

“— _Tight_ fit?” Simon barked, Nigel sniggered. “Well, you are a scrawny tyke aren’t ya?”

They both laughed, though Nigel was more than a little embarrassed. He really was a stork, however Simon didn’t seem to mind. The ribbing was fond, good natured fun. Nigel knew that.

At some point his chocolate browns had slipped closed, beneath the frames.

“Planet Earth is blue and there’s nothing I can do.” Simon breathed softly, along with Bowie, as the smile again spread across Nigel’s face.

“You know, Simon,” he began, clearing his throat, “that could make a great song title.”

Nigel rose up to rest against the side of the bed, Simon followed.

Confused, “‘there’s nothing I can do?’ Seems a bit vague, don’t it Johnny?”

_True but vague._

“No!” He shook his head, still damp from the rain. Limbs flailing about, he caught Simon’s chest; well defined through his thin jumper. He coughed. “I meant, you know, planet Earth.”

“Planet Earth?” Simon hummed, considering. “This is Planet Earth. You’re, Johnny, lookin’ at Planet Earth.”

Nigel’s lips parted, almost ready to bark back a melody. They closed, shyness stunting him. Thankfully Simon didn’t ask for more, only smiling softly as Nigel ground his head into his neck. When had he even fallen in line?

“Tell my wife I love her very much.”

“She know- wow-woahs.” Nigel pitched in, the single spinning for god knows how long.

Then together, in a somehow botched attempt at a harmony: “Planet Earth is blue and there’s nothing _we_ can do.”

Biting his lip, only now had Nigel began to realise the state they were in. How close, breathing on each other, skin flush, fabric brushing. Sitting on their tin can…

“Ahem, how about some, uh,” Nigel pulled away, hot, like he had been scorned. “You like…” crawling over to his small but modest record collection. _No – not Chic, he can’t know about that yet._ “You like _T-Rex_ , Simon? _Get It On?”_

There was a hum. “Bang A Gong? Nah, not really. Not my thing. Kinda boring.”

“Borin’?!” Nigel frowned, though Simon couldn’t see, as he placed his copy of 1971’s _Electric Warrior_ back.

“Oh I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset my Johnny.” He sniggered, Nigel crawled around so Simon didn’t have a face full of his wet arse any longer.

“Your, your what?”

Squinting, beautiful lips quirking upwards; “I said, God you’re a shite listener, _my_ Johnny.”

Nigel scoffed, surprised. “Yo- _your_ Johnny?”

Simon winked, teasing. “Yeah. Why else would you invite a near total stranger home, huh?”

_Near total stranger? Holy shit._

“You obviously care ‘bout me. Don’t you?”

The realisation slapped him in the face.

“Can you hear me Major _John?_ Can your heeeaaarrrrr… I’m fuckin’ sitting on my tin can!” Simon cackled, through his interesting take on the lyrics.

He didn’t know anything about Simon. Well, except his name and how that was actually his real given name (he still found it hard to believe he was dealing with French nobility, not too sure if Simon was joking about that or not), to where he now lived. And that was about it. Oh and, he was a fan of David Bowie and Cockney Rebel.

“You got anything by _The Police?_ ” Simon piped up, at his back.

Frowning, “no. Reggae ain’t really my thing.” He lied, knowing that there was no way he could match those basslines himself.

“It’s not?” Simon considered. “You know Johnny, there are some damn fine bass parts on those tracks. Sting’s a natural.”

Nigel nodded.

“You might learn something.”

“Oi!”

“ _God_. Imagine singing with someone as talented as _Sting_.” Simon’s voice was small, wistful. “I’d be shitting myself, recording that duet!”

Nigel opted for Queen’s _Jazz_ , hoping the LP would be to Simon’s liking too.

“Tell me then, Simon, tell me all you know.”

“Now that, Johnny,” he pointed, Nigel cocked a brow, “ _that’s_ a song title right there.”

“Tell me all you know?” He agreed. “I’ll kept it in me ‘ead.”

“What do you wanna know, then?”

Nigel inhaled sharply. He let rip, he really hadn’t spoken so much but wanted Simon to guide him here.

“Where are you from?”

“Ah, a bollocks interview.” Nigel squirmed at those words. “It’s alright, I’ll have to get used to them if I make it as an actor. If you’re willin’ to listen, I’ll talk.”

“Oh, oh of course Simon!” He sounded oddly hopeful, crawling back over to him, a little minx in his stride. “Actor?”

Side by side again, Simon held out a hand. Nigel’s shy palm took it. Took him, to his bed.

He blushed violently at having the other man beside him in his bed.

“Pinner, London. Though figured you’d gotten that from the accent. You Brummies, me and Ands stick out like sore thumbs around here.” Nigel chuckled, confirming that.

“Actor? You said actor?”

Giggling, “or director. Now that’s a dream.” He trailed off, Nigel wished he knew what was running through that dirty blonde head of his. “You know I’m a drama student nearby, right?”

Nigel nodded, feigning him having the slightest idea.

“Well, two years at Brum City and here I am, singing in bars.”

With a scoff, “not yet you aren’t, Simon.”

“Correction!” He blurted. “In bars _again_.”

“You’ve been in bands before? Why am I surprised?” _You have that natural front man charisma, and pain in the ass-ness,_ he didn’t say.

“Dog Days was my last, punk bands are the best right?!”

Nigel agreed, wishing there was a demo tape of that nearby.

“Happy childhood?”

A laugh, “what kinda question is that?!” Simon pounced at him, hitting his forearm softly.

Nigel felt a spark. He coughed.

“Yeah, I guess. Mostly happy.”

“Any siblings, Simon?”

“Yes Jeeves, two brothers. I’m the old and grey one.” He joked, thumping Nigel again.

Nigel’s breath caught itself in his throat. They were so close now, resting on their sides. So. Agonisingly. Close.

“Parents?” He uttered, shuffling away.

“Yes, two. As I came from both a man and a woman, not a _robot_ like I wish I did, yes.” He spat. “Parents separated a little while back, my father remarried.”

“Father? What’s his name?”

Then, Simon’s eyes clouded over with something Nigel couldn’t define. He was worried a moment, had he offended him?

“It’s John.” He laughed.

_Did the guy just laugh?!_

“John?” Nigel piped up, realising this had taken a very odd turn.

_Oh fuck off, how can that be?!_

“Yeah, his name is John. My middle name’s John. Small world eh, Johnny?” He cried.

_Imagine that at the wedding._

“You’re… bollocks! Your middle name is John?!”

_Wait, wedding?!_

“And you’re surprised why? Because it’s your name too?” Simon asked, cheeky as ever. “You live on freaking _Simon_ Road, it’s like the universe was waiting for us. Giving us all the signs.”

“Middle name…” Nigel shook his head, dismissing the thought. “Wait, signs? You believe that?”

_You a holy man, then?_

“Well, it’s one of them. Signs I mean. And one of my middle names, yeah Johnny.”

“ _One_ of them?! How many bleedin’ names do you ‘ave, Le Bon?!” He surprised himself by his tone, all playful, all smiles.

“A few, my dear Johnny.”

Nigel couldn’t help but convulse with laughter at hearing the man’s full name: Simon John Charles Le Bon.

“More ruddy names than we ‘ave Taylors!”

“Fuck off.” Simon didn’t look too pleased.

Nigel stopped laughing. He figured, running his nails up his arms to stall momentarily for time; he had to come clean.

“There’s that look again. What are ya hiding, Johnny?”

“You know Simon,” he began, cautious, shifting so they weren’t so close anymore. “I never said you could call me… _Johnny_.”

Simon’s bright blue eyes momentarily bulged in their sockets, they weren’t shining anymore. “Oh fuck. You didn’t, did you? Shite, I’m sorry, John, I didn’t mean to upset you or nothing.” Simon withdrew, now resting up against Nigel’s headboard.  
  


  
Though he opted for distance, it was a single bed. Nigel didn’t get very far.

“No, no, I’m not mad or anythin’ no. In fact I, y’know, Simon I…” He engulfed a shaky breath, realising as the words rolled off of his tongue that he really did mean them. “I _like_ it. ‘Kay?”

“You do?” Simon tread gently, in a vulnerable tone so new to them both.

He nodded, shielded dark eyes dropping to the foot of the bed. “It’s special, I guess? Just you can call me that, you know? It… oh I don’t know, it hits different?”

“Ah, okay then. Okay John-nee.” He stretched out the final word, Nigel’s heart leapt in his chest. “You should’ve told me earlier ‘bout your three bloody Taylors. Now that came as a shock.”

Nigel couldn’t help but snigger, his heart felt light. “As opposed to dealin’ with _Tres Bon_ himself, yeah?”

“Not one, not two but three! _Three!_ ” Simon steamrolled straight over him, giggling with mirth through his words. “How does that even happen? Were you upset you couldn’t find another, so had to settle for whittle-ole-me?”

Nigel debated slapping the back of that pretty, pouty head. “If it makes you feel any better, me and Rog’s mums ‘ave the same name too: Jean.”

“What the shit did I walk into?!” Simon howled, tossing his head back as his laughter fell free. “The band incest?!”

“And you know ‘bout our Queen drummer too.”

“Rog. That’s… still fuckin’ hi- _larious!_ How will the world tell ‘em apart if we make it big?!” Simon was howling, kicking out.

“We ain’t gonna be as big as _Queen_ , you know it shithead! They ain’t even at their height yet, are they?”

_Does that make him Freddie Mercury?_

Simon was laughing too hard to answer.

_Good Lord._

“Nick’s father’s name is Roger. Roger’s middle name is Andrew. Andy’s the only somewhat original one.”

“Jesus, Johnny! How d’ya keep track of all that tat?!”

Their laughter synched up a moment, a moment Nigel really didn’t want to see break.

“Actually,” he hiccuped as his laughter finally died down, “what I was gonna say was uh, about me name, Simon. Me name is… is…” He paused, unable to say anything more.

“John, right? That’s what you said. What, were ya _lying_ to me all this time?” Simon’s voice picked up, dangerously.

Now it was Nigel’s turn to tread gently on the ground, when all around him the Earth seemed to turn to fire. “Actually… fuck, yeah, I dunno why I did that. I blanked, you came up to me and made me smile?”

“So come up and see me, _Make Me Smile._ ” Simon chuckled through the words, it was a sure fire favourite single. “But why’d you lie? What’s your real name?”

He swallowed audibly—

“Nigel, sweetie! Are you up here?”

Simon couldn’t hide his disbelief, jaw dropping. “Nigel?!” He mouthed, “your name is bleedin’ _Nigel?!_ ”

“Holy fuck.” He grunted under breath.


	8. I’m A Rocket Ship On My Way To Mars, On A Collision Course

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from Queen’s _Don’t Stop Me Now. ___

There was a familiar knock on Nigel’s bedroom door, he answered through his shock as Simon battled falling all over himself, convulsing with laughter over the revelation. His mother Jean stood before them both, having accidentally ‘outed’ him so; or saved him from having to reveal himself; he wasn’t sure.

Simon barely had stopped his contagious giggling. And hiccuping. Nigel couldn’t quite stifle that blush.

As always, his room, his world brightened up remarkably as she entered. Poised and elegant, well put together, fresh faced with a dashing smile. Jean was surprised, sending him a strange glance. Though every mother had the right to be, he figured, when their only son bought around a new strange boy and were lying in bed together.

_Wait, what?!_

It was dinner time. Simon stayed put, much to Nigel’s relief and chagrin. He struck up a wonderful conversation, getting on remarkably with Jean and his father Jack, or Jacko, just like that. Nigel waffled down some peas, thoroughly confused.

“Your mum, she’s really somethin’.”

Their night was cut short, Nigel could tell his parents had been silently fuming over their unexpected and poorly explained dinner guest. The Catholic guilt, as it were, was beginning to seep in. Their tender moments, their caresses, their closeness…

“Yeah, she is. The light of me life, no woman will ever be good enough for me; if it ain’t her, you know?” He chuckled, through the awkward turn of events. _What woman?_ Shaking his head, dismissing that particular trail of thought: “you know which bus back, right? You guys really aren’t that far from— what the shit am I doing? Mummy!”

“Mummy!” Simon barked, with a snigger back.

“Shut up.”

Her voice flowed through from the kitchen, washing the dishes. “Yes, son?”

“I’m gonna walk Simon home!” He winced - _that’s what couples did. Goddamnit._

“Awww, can’t part with me that easily, can you Johnny?” The cocky shit winked at him, Nigel grimaced again. “Like a couple would…”

Though she sounded a little pained, Jean agreed. Wanting him back soon, in fear he’d catch a cold.

Together he and Simon dove into the inky black streets, thankfully the rain had finally let up. Nigel unsuccessfully avoided large puddles, found out that Simon was one of those assholes who liked to kick through a puddle to soak whoever was with him for _fun_ and found himself laughing like a tit over it and then Nigel was splashing him back.

Just some lighthearted, boyish fun. Nothing too major. No band stuff either, he was thankful for the night off of the strings. And the sauce. _The HP sauce!_

Standing before their block of flats, in a neighbourhood that Nigel would much rather see the back off; Simon thanked him for the evening, for feeding him and apologised for taking up his time.

Nigel told him “what, don’t be silly! It was going good till, you know” and was met by a choked off laugh.

Simon turned, about to buzz Andy upstairs to let him in.

“Wait!”

Nigel trudged quickly up the stone steps to follow him, splashing about in the puddles on his way.

“What is it, Johnny?”

_Come on, come on. Let’s stick together._

“Come by tomorrow, mum’s making a roast.”

Simon cocked a brow. “I don’t know. It’s a nice gesture and all but… fuck. It’s not fair on Ands to let him go hungry again tomorrow night.”

“Hungry?” He really hadn’t expected that.

Something dark flashed over Simon’s eyes. “Yeah John, it’s hard for us both here without our families and all to get by… woo boy, look at the time. Best get inside.” Simon stuttered, deftly avoiding the conversation concerning his finances. Or lack thereof. “Besides, I have work.”

Nigel didn’t ask, Simon didn’t elaborate.

“Wait!” Simon turned to face him, pouting irritably.

“What is it _this_ time, Johnny?” He gestured wildly around them both. “You’re gettin’ soaked, you’re gonna catch a cold if ya just _stand_ there gawking at me.”

He hopped back up the steps.

Nigel was panting softly, now there was little to no space between them; a murky yellow light coming from the ground floor of the cruddy apartment building to coat them in the buttery glow; he was poorly shielded from the rain that again was starting to fall. Nigel could barely make out his silhouette but could feel him, could sense him.

Could sense himself leaning right into those open and parted—

He pulled back, hot. Never quite getting there, always a beat behind. He saw Simon swallow nervously then remembered: Nick was the one Simon was after, not him.

Simon has wanted to ask about Nick. Miraculously, neither man had dropped his name into conversation that night. Nigel figured, there was no point in starting now.

“When routine bites hard. And ambitions are low.”

Nigel stepped back, shocked.

  
The voice continued, though quiet and hesitant.

“And resentment rides high. But emotions won't grow.”

He found himself closing the gap he hadn’t meant to cause. Leaning in, wanting so desperately to join in: to formulate the duet. He didn’t.

  
“And we're changing our ways. Taking different roads.”

He did. “Love, _Love Will Tear Us Apart,_ again.”

“Love, John. Love _won’t_ tear us apart, okay?” That wasn’t sang. It was said, with feeling.

_Who’s love? Your love for Nick?_

Reluctantly, Nigel stepped back. Over a hundred emotions were rushing around his lanky body, chilling him to the core. Warming him up inside. Their moment was beautiful, though he couldn’t say that: in fear of what Simon might say in return.

_My love for you?_

Shuffling away, shoving his hands into his pockets, dropping them to his sides. Nigel cleared his throat; gaze dropping.

_Love? Bullshit me!_

“You know I did mean to tell ya my name before. I just freaked in that bathroom back at the Runner. Don’t ask why, I don’t know why.” He fidgeted, hands running down his collar, feeling choked. “I’m, you know, real _sorry_ I didn’t tell ya’s before, okay?” He blurted, back to studying his shoes.

_There was no response, only a harder patter turn thud of the rain behind him._

“You cry out in your sleep, all my failings exposed – huh?” He rambled on some more, fighting himself over using any more _Joy Division_ lyrics, until the firm grip on his chin angled his head upwards; stopping his babbling.

Simon was right there, closing in on him. Right there, lips ever so close to—

“Ha! You sod!” Simon pulled back, chuckling like a loon. “I knew your name was ‘Nigel’ this whole freaking time! And they kept letting me call you ‘Johnny’ like a twit for two weeks! Thankfully, Nick was quick to rectify that.” Simon winked before turning around and hauling ass. “Or should I say—” he pivoted, still chuckling, “Johnny _Raven!_ ”

Nigel just stood there, eyes bugging out of his confused little head. Embarrassed, over the failed nickname. Ashamed, not knowing how he felt. What to feel.

_What the fuck just happened?_

He looked up again, Simon had vanished.

Though a part of him was laughing, he got the cute nickname from Simon. Nick didn’t have that, yet. Simon also didn’t have Nick yet, he was reminded. Kicking a stone far to voice the newfound frustration, he began his descent back down the winding roads of Hollywood; hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets. With one question on his now chattering lips: _what does Nick have that I don’t?_


	9. The Image Is Gone, Only You And I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from the iconic _Vienna _by Ultravox.__

Sleeping that night was hard. Nigel lay painfully awake, staring at the posters on the ceiling; through the tiniest of streetlight that bled in through the light curtains. Tossing and turning did him no good, neither would a fag at this hour.

Rolling over, he blindly searched for his glasses and turned on the bedside lamp; wincing as the glow bathed his body and bed a deep yellow.

Glancing up he cursed, when he noticed it. Laying not too far from his bed, off of his desk chair; was a solitary mustard jumper, still likely damp. A half smile graced his face, lopsided, and before he knew it he was crawling over. Slinking off of the single bed, collapsing in a heap on the floor, tugging the jumper down with him.

Simon’s jumper, he’d forgotten it.

Nigel was right, it was still damp. Nigel was right, letting the front man borrow something of his. Though he had perhaps stared a little too hard as the singer whipped off and wrung out his jumper, the toned and muscled stomach beneath was a sight that poor Nigel wouldn’t be shaking from his mind no matter how hard he tried.

Head resting at the side of the bed, eyes suddenly feeling heavy, he shut them tight and bought the jumper in close. Clutching it to his bare chest he felt a shiver run up his body, bringing the warmth.

“Cuz you’ve waited through your ice age…” he paused, wondering where on Earth that came from. “Let me in, Simon, _please_.”

_Or do you need to let him in?_

With the fabric so close, he was sure that he could smell him. A faint yet masculine aura that tinted the cotton; feeling so smooth under Nigel’s rough fingertips. Shaking his head, he realised he was already more than a little too attached. Sleeping in Simon’s damp jumper would surely give him the cold he’d been miraculously fighting all night, all week through the constant storms.

“There’s… uh, _heat_ beneath your erm… bollocks, winter? Yeah. Winter.” Moment ruined.

With a sigh Nigel rose to his feet, dropping the jumper back on the side of the chair. He plodded back onto the bed, opening the bedside cabinet. Fishing out the required items, he flickered to a fresh page in his journal - _don’t say diary_ – and sprawled away, whatever came to him he noted down: if he could do so quick enough.

“Alone in the night as the daylight brings. A cool empty silence. The warmth of your hand and a cold grey sky. It fades to the distance.” Nigel whispered the lyrics down as he scribbled, finding the new _Ultravox_ track he kept spinning at _HMV_ to really be fitting here.

He even flickered back a few pages, unaware of just how much he had written since the infamous audition, when four became five. Feelings everywhere, thoughts a jumble. Near illegible handwriting trying so hard to capture everything, absolutely _everything_.

“The image is gone, only you and I. It means… it means…”

He didn’t recite any more lyrics that night.

Sometimes there were drawings too. Little caricatures, with large heads and teeny bodies drawn with sharpie ink. It may have been nearing 2am but his few limited art skills seemed to prevail: documenting the night in full.

_Hooded eyes… bright an’ sparkly… pouty lips, swagger… dominance, Elvis— holy shit._

Looking down at the page, he was blissfully unaware of the little sketch where his imagination had really run wild. They were holding hands in one, snuggling together atop a cramped bed in another. Which, Nigel supposed wasn’t too far from the truth.

No kissing yet, he didn’t know how to draw that. Although it didn’t stop him drawing hearts around a certain front man’s name.

***  
  


Another week passed by, his fingers were raw from plucking those strings. However, as Nick pointed out with a laugh, Nigel should just ‘get some _E45_ on there and man up.’ He’d have to get used to it, if stardom was calling.

_Easy for you to say Bates, you only press them keys – you fragile sod!_

They even had songs now too! Ones with lyrics worth the listen. It turns out that the lyric book Simon had bought with him to his audition really was their holy grail, answers really did lie in there. It was the fountain, that dreams were made off. Though Nigel wondered endlessly, unsure about how or if to ask; just when did he write them? With whom? About whom?

Most importantly, which lyrics were new. Were any of them about him? Were any of them about Nick?

_Nick_ , he inhaled sharply. Watching from the sidelines, bass dropping from his grip; he really had noticed Simon gelling with the group. Not just with Andy, though apparently things were going well with their living arrangements, but Nick too.

Though the age gap did show, they were already very close – Nigel was sure of it.

What he wasn’t sure of was his own feelings towards that, he couldn’t quite deny the pang of jealously that struck him, every time Simon laid a hand on Nick’s ruffle clad shoulder, or Nick brushed his chest with his manicured fingertips. Every time Nick laughed at a very cringe worthy joke. Though really dodging it; Nigel wasn’t too sure he had anything to be mad about.

Here, Nick was always the harshest critic, the cynic, their front men had bickered most with him and the current band themselves seemed to fray his edges at times.

Perhaps Simon was only trying to get into his good books, needing to stay there. Yeah, that seemed logical. That seemed fair.

He would be lying if he said he wasn’t a little relived when Simon had to leave for work, abruptly putting an end to his and the keyboardist’s conversation.

“Never gon’ stop. Never gonna stop, give it up, such a dirty mi-ind!” Nigel had been staring into space a while, totally lost on _The Knack’s_ snazzy guitar riff in mind. “I always get it up, for the touch of the younger kind…” _don’tcha Simon?_ He sniggered to himself, catching a strange glint in Nick’s hazel eye.

Slinking over to his best friend, Nigel plopped himself down beside the deserted bar, aching for a cocktail.

“So what was, y’know, that about, Master Bates?”

Face like thunder, only for a split second, “nothing of any use to you, I’m sure.”

Nigel’s eyes broadened comically, that was harsh! “Oh really? What did James Bond have to say that ‘ad ya laughin’ like that?” _You haven’t laughed like that around me in ages._ “Smilin’ like a tit and all?”

Nick rolled his heavily lined gaze, Nigel continued to pry.

“C’mon Bates, what is it? Why won’t you tell me?” Then, changing his tone to something more shit-eating, he swallowed down any other feeling. “Is somethin’ going on between you two? You’re both awfully close, Nicky.”

At that, Nigel was well and truly stumped. Nick just barked out his laughter, his thick Brummie accent ringing through their small rehearsal space.

“Yeah, sure. There’s something between me and _Simon_ , _suuuuure_.” He joked, leaving Nigel there.

“Well, _that_ was helpful.” He jibed, to no one in particular. _Or is it just a game in my mind, Sharona?!_


	10. You Think I’m Cute, A Little Bit Shy?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from Robert Palmer’s _Bad Case Of Loving You. _💓__ Obvious reasons!

Another weekend of rehearsals and (light, he didn’t really drink and mingle too hard) partying, things were really moving forward. Nigel was sure, though always a little cautious with his wishes and genie lamp; that perhaps the group would be ready to perform again. Soon, very soon, as the in-house band.

Glancing upwards at the bathroom mirror, he fumbled with his tie for the infinite time, settling on the fact that here he was: nineteen and he still couldn’t dress himself for work. His shelve stocking days were behind him for now, nowadays he was behind the bar.

“If only, bloody hell,” he yanked it off his neck, grunting. “Nicky were ‘ere. Fuck, imagine all five of us, matchin’ ties and shirts for a video… Ugh, cringe.”

“You read my mind, mate.”

“Huh?” He span around, clutching his chest. “Good God! Why d’ya always do that? Bastard!”

Giggling, absolutely unapologetic, “those matching shirts… that’s entertainment, Johnny.”

Cocking his head, “you a _Jam_ fan, or—”

“— Over that _Marmite_ cack, yes.”

They both gazed heavily at each other, that wasn’t at all what Nigel had meant.

“Simon! I meant Paul Weller!” He chuckled, as the singer practically wrestled his tie from him.

“Turn around, stay _still_.” The voice behind him dropped, to a dangerously seductive syllable. Nigel was breathing heavily, trembling, as two huge hands rounded his neck, slinking the silken tie around him, fixing it in place.

His eyes had slipped shut, behind his frames. _Can’t tell the real from reflection_ – so he bid farewell to his reflection, the body heat telling him that this was no dream. He’d be foolish to still think it was.

Those hands fixed his collar before slipping away, Nigel groaned softly at the loss. Then, darting his eyes open, he felt himself be turned bodily; two insisting hands on his sinew arms.

“There, _perfect_. A dashin’ waiter boy, if you ask me eh?”

He froze, eyes wide, glasses about to slip off his face. Threatening to do so.

“ _In the eyes of a stranger_. They’re really pretty eyes, you know.” Nigel blushed deeply, the powder in his face only enhancing it further. “Why don’t you get rid of these specs, try contacts?”

He gulped audibly, nodding like a fool as he adjusted his glasses, cockeyed on his face.

“Can’t hurt now, can it? Oh and whilst you’re at it, that damn fringe…”

He couldn’t afford them, he knew that. Plus the pain of getting them in and out, the responsibilities…

What if he was dying of thirst first thing in the morning, hand lurching out and, well, that glass was all he could find? What if he _drank_ them?!

“… John? Hey, John? _This is Planet Earth?_ ” He waved, singing softly. “You alright? What did I say wrong?”

Nigel hurled his weight, turning to face the grotty club bathroom mirror. He nodded again, letting out a “yes, one day. If I can, you know,” his head dropped, “afford ‘em.”

“Oh, okay sure.”

“What about my fringe?” He posed, voice small.  
  


There was a flash of baby blues, “fringe, you can’t bloody see half the time as it is, Johnny! Cut it, stop hiding.”

Fingers playing with his tie, he focused heavily on his hands. “It’s, you know, easy for uh, _you_ to say. You’re a drama student, you’re made for the stage.” _You deserve to be on stage._

The laugh before him was merry, rhythmical, unlike anything Nigel had heard from the man before.

“I’m not a student now remember? It’s almost summer break and shit, I’m not going back.”

“You’re not?”

They winked. Then, their voice dropped. “You think I don’t get nervous?”

“No, matter of fact I don’t.”

“Have you seen me perform in front of a crowd before?”

“Uhhh…”

“No, no you haven’t. My mother, Ann-Marie, would always say: Charley! Straighten up. Eyes And Teeth, Eyes _._ And. Teeth _._ ” Nigel nodded, silently apologising, having no clue where he was going with that speech.

“Eyes and what now?”

“Hey, don’t feel bad. You’ve done nothin’ wrong, mate.” They dodged the question, artfully.

_Mate. Oh bullshit me._

“Can I, I uh.” Nigel stopped himself, shaking his head to dismiss the thought.

Of course, nothing would get past the man before him; who was smiling like a Cheshire Cat. “What? What do _you_ want, Johnny?”

His lips parted, then closed. Shyness taking over.

With a snort, “a _hug?_ ”

Nigel’s gaze widened comically, that’s exactly what he wanted.

And that’s exactly what he got.

“I’ve gotta fi-i-ind my _Johnny_ , yet!” Those arms were open, welcoming, as he shimmied into them. “You need me, to soothe your he-ead!”

Giggling, “turn my blu-ue heart to red!”

_Way to ruin the moment, Nigel._

He was enveloped in those arms, toned and muscular, reeling his lanky torso in tight. Nigel took every chance, burying his nose in that neck, deftly avoiding the high collar and slight sweat from the dance floor lights that pooled there. He held on tight, though he was shaking, aching as the body began to peel away, leaving him anything but cold.

**_You think I’m cute?_ **

**_A little bit shy?_ **

****

_Simon I, hell. I am that kinda guy._

He didn’t want him to think that Nigel hadn’t been listening, he scrambled out a “I’ll keep it in mind. Eyes an’ fringe. ‘Kay?”

Then he left Simon there, muttering further Robert Palmer lyrics. Pulse rising as other parts of him were too, silently thanking him again for fixing up his little waiter’s uniform. And, of course, for every moment after.

***

The next night came as a welcome night off, each band member pulling out so they could have fun together. Dancing the night away, getting plastered if that was their thing. Nigel smiled, catching sight of Roger and Andy together at the bar, beers in hand. Roger looked much more relaxed now that he wasn’t greeting the guests at the door and it was a welcome change to see Andy out here at all: not slaving away for hours in the boiling kitchen.

“So I forgot to tell ya, Nick thinks I should try get work here. Quit what I’m doin’ now.”

“What are you doin’ now, Simon?” Nigel asked, coming up blank.

Simon joked about having a personal life and wanting to stay off of the Dole a little longer, deftly avoiding the question.

“I don’t quite know if I can quit, you know? The money’s great and this whole band thing… yeah.”

“Yeah, what?”

Oh God. This is the part where they both realised that the band meant different things to them, more to Nigel then it ever would Simon. He’d barely been here five weeks and already he was thinking of leaving— _no, stop it Taylor._

The concern on Simon’s face told him that he really could read into his perplexed little mind.

“No, don’t think that Johnny. I’m staying put.” Simon immediately lurched forward, causing Nigel to drop his hands on the table. He grasped them as the fag ash dropped atop of Simon’s palm, Nigel holding on tight; wondering why the hell he was doing so. “I don’t want you upset now, okay?” Simon dropped their hands.

Some other time they could discuss it, when he was ready to have his heart broken for a very different reason regarding Simon; regarding the band. Then if Nigel dared, which obviously he never would, he could ask what the group really meant to him and have his heart broken.

Clinking glasses, they kept the conversation light, full of Simon’s dad jokes, wanting Nigel’s spirits to soar. Though at some point things had to turn sour, he wasn’t quite sure how or when but now he was sharing Simon. With another woman.

“Charley, hi!”

  
“Ms Fiona!” He practically sang, holding out his arms for her to pounce into.

Nigel was relaxing in a booth, thinking that they were secluded enough. Though when Fiona found them, he dropped his cigarette right into his glass – with a curse.

“You know Fiona?” Nigel asked, oddly astounded.

“Of course, Johnny. Everybody knows _Rum Runner_ Fiona!” Nigel gulped audibly, watching the waitress scramble into Simon’s lap – _where I should be._ “Without her I wouldn’t be here in the first place.”

_You what?_

He began tapping irritably atop the table, craving another cigarette. Another cigarette that he didn’t have.

“Yeah, I told him there was a band lookin’ for a new singer. Charley fits the bill.” She added, the pride evident in her tone.

_Charlie?_

Coughing, Nigel sputtered: “How do you two know each other, huh?”

_How do I even spell that one? John Charles…_

Maybe he got an answer, maybe he didn’t. She was talking, Simon was talking and Nigel couldn’t focus. Something about university, friends of friends, friends, being more than friends, roommates, lovers—

“ _What?!_ ” He blurted, earning a few weird looks on all ends.

Simon just gaped at him.

“You and y-you?!” _Fuck me._ “If you’ll excuse me I’m gonna, gonna uh… bye.” He upped without another word, flustered, ducking out of there.

_Of course he’s playing around._

Headed straight to the bar, Nigel decided against it. Another rum and coke wouldn’t do anything and besides, he needed his pocket money for that new pick. With a groan; he slinked past the dance floor, not bothered about catching the beat, towards the cloakroom.

_He’s freaking Simon Le— fuck!_

Where again, he wasn’t careful; colliding with a small woman, lost in a sea of coats.

“Oi, watch it!” Nigel spat, immediately feeling guilty. “Sorry, I, I’m sorry.”


	11. I Love Your Love Action

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A surprising new arrival...
> 
> Chapter title taken from Human League’s _Love Action. ___

Nigel had gone and knocked the woman to the floor, he held out a calloused hand for her to grab; helping her back to standing. Her eyes were dark naturally, now smokey, though he blamed the makeup. Her lips were tinted noir, powder showing off those high cheekbones. He cringed, as she moved to stand in the light: _skinhead_.

“Fuck I’m sorry,” he repeated, dropping her gloved hand, “are you alright miss?”

“Miss? That’s refreshing.”

“Refreshing?”

“Toots, bird to straight out _whore_. You hear what you want to hear, in a place like this.” She spoke, tossing her shaven head back; her hood falling in the process. “Giovanna Cantone, cloakroom girl.”

“Oh, that’s a, y’know, that’s a pretty name.”

“You’re with the band, right?” Her voice softened, less convincing than before.

“That I am,” he gulped, nervously, wondering if she was coming onto him. “Have you been watching?”

She hesitated, he mentally kicked himself. “You guys haven’t played here yet.”

“Oh, y-yeah. You’re right.” He grimaced, though she was smiling at him. “Not with our latest edition, erm, Simon.”

Her smile was unlike anything Nigel had ever seen, full of beauty and truth. She giggled at him, with him, then together they were sifting through the clothing; more than a little relieved for the breather being out of the main club.

They chatted a little, he properly introduced himself (as _Nigel_ this time). She was warm, funny, turns out she wanted to be a dancer. Nigel smiled at her, the humble cloakroom skinhead teenager, he didn’t have a dancing bone in his near six feet of pure jelly body.

Though something she did say grabbed his attention, before she bid him farewell to continue her shift.

“Roger, really? You know he don’t say anything, right?”

She bit her blackened lip. “I know.”

“And you want to try… _what_ exactly with him, young lady?!” He was oddly cautious, always in a teasing manor.

She winked, Nigel hollered.

“Though he’s got great biceps, I’ll give ya that, luv.”

She blushed, bringing a hand up to her face to poorly cover her giggle. Like Nigel would.

“Don’t.” He leant forward, sending her hand back to her side. “Don’t hide that smile, it’s wonderful Giovanna.”

“Okay.” She replied, voice soft. “I like you, call me Gio please.”

“Gio…” he liked how that sounded, “of course.”

She asked and asked about Roger, laughing hysterically as she realised there were three Taylors. Three to choose from! Which came as a surprise.

“Didn’t you just start working ‘ere?”

“Yeah.”

“Wow, Rog’s made that much of an impression on ya’s already?!”

Perhaps she had more than a little thing for their drummer? Grinning to himself, Nigel pointed Giovanna in the band’s general direction; wondering just who she _really_ was after.

“What can I say, Nigel.” She began, staring deeply into his chocolate brown eyes. “I don’t waste time. If I see something I like, I have to go for it. Worry about getting shot down later.”

Wow. He was taken aback slightly, the girl had moxie and he liked that.

Perhaps he could learn a thing or two from her.

“Good luck, luv,” he dared to lay a hand on her shoulder, crouching slightly so his breath tickled her ear. “Remember me when you’re writin’ your wedding vows.”

“ _What?!_ ” She shrieked, shaking him off.

“What?” He replied, startled.


	12. Sing Blue Silver

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Turns out I’ve had this chapter queued for near two weeks!

Standing before the unopened door, Nigel inhaled a deep breath before yanking it open; arms braced and screeching: “Andy!— _and?_ You ain’t Ands.”

“That’s right, he ain’t.” Andy cackled, a hand on Simon’s shoulder. “After you.”

Simon stepped in, over the threshold. Nigel swallowed his gum.

The two Taylors watched as the front man shucked off his shoes and coat; doing the same. Nigel let Simon lead the way, so he could haul Andy back by a not so nice grip on the guitarist’s teeny shoulder.

Whispering, loud whispering: “what d’ya bring ‘im for?! I only wanted to run over Girls On—”

“—Don’t you manhandle me Nigel, he wanted to come so I figured eh, why not? It’s his song too, you rangy bastard, let him in.”

_Let him in._

All thoughts came to a grounding halt, Simon was stood beside Nigel’s mother, Jean, who had tea and biscuits on a plate for them. Apologetic, unaware of another guest, she offered Simon a drink who commented ‘no worries ma’am, I’ll make it myself’ before following her into the kitchen.

Nigel just stood there, dumbfounded, before glaring at Andy.

Andy, who winked. _The little shit!_

_***  
  
_

“Damn was that some good tea.” Simon jibed, placing the used cup on Nigel’s tiny windowsill.

“Why?” Nigel leered, “cos you made it?”

Simon winked, Nigel hid his blush in his tea cup.

“Anyways, down to _band_ business… feels good to say that now.” The look on Simon’s face as those somewhat sacred words had rolled off of his lovely lips… Nigel felt a warmth blossoming in his chest. Maybe that was the tea.

“Uh, Nigel?”

He was convinced it wasn’t the tea.

“You’ve been staring into space a while there, man.”

“Hey, what!” Andy slapped him, chuckling alongside the singer. “Jesus Ands!”

“Best be careful, prayin’ in this place, Charlie, I’ll tell ya.” Andy whirled his little body around, now perched beside Simon on the bed. “Surprised Mrs Taylor even let me back in!” He jibed, sending a knowing glance Nigel’s way.

Nigel’s way… he waffled down a _Bourbon_.

“Eh, Nige’… you gonna laugh or?” Andy tried again, Nigel bit his bottom lip.

“You can call her Jean, she likes you Andy.”

_Yeah; it’s always risky business praying in this house._ He shot the guitarist a look, with a heavy heart; silently telling him to can it. Though thankfully, maybe the two Taylors had some strange psychic powers or some shit, Andy dropped it.

“Sorry.” They didn’t get many apologies out of the guitarist, Nigel took it immediately.

“‘Tis okay.”

Basking in the suddenly awkward silence, the antsy blonde was the first to speak. “Am I missing something?”

Nigel sputtered. “No, no, I just don’t, you know, wanna talk about me mum or _religion_ in here.”

“Religion? Why is that a big thing for ya, Johnny?”

_Like you wouldn’t believe._

“You’re still callin’ him ‘Johnny’?!” Andy spoke up, trying to alleviate the awkwardness he hadn’t meant to cause.

Simon waggled his brows once, Nigel hid his little giggle poorly behind his hand.

“Lucky sod you are then Simon, he don’t like us usin’ any nicknames.”

With a cackle, “that’s because nothin’ goes with bloomin’ _Nigel_.” Before removing his hand, he joked, remembering what Simon had said that first time he had come round – knowing the front man would much rather see the smile.

“Right you are again, Johnny.”

So he smiled, grinned and bared it; before falling into a laughing fit over nothing, the awkward silence alive with his own bizarre cackles. Nigel couldn’t help himself once he got going, tossing his head back and slapping his own right knee.

“That’s more like it, baby!” Simon was right beside him now, finger tips running up and down Nigel’s torso, tickling him. Causing him to laugh and stutter, hiccuping his way through.

_Baby?!_

“Cut it out, agh, Simon!” He giggled, lashing out as Simon took him deeper, pushing him onto his back as Nigel hiccuped over and over. “Ah, _Christ!_ ”

Andy just sat there, the two men before him seemingly unaware that they were being watched. A dry cough shook Nigel out of it, face going blank, silently asking Simon to retreat. Their moment broke.

Sitting up, he tried hard to not read too deep into the look Andy gave him. Too knowing, too many things, too much to know.

_Blimey._

They behaved, after whatever that was. _Don’t say tickle fight, do not say tickle fight._ They got right to work, Nigel grabbing his bass from it’s stand at the edge of the small bedroom.

Thankfully Andy bought an acoustic so he wouldn’t enrage the whole street with his playing.

_An_ _acoustic? Since when did Ands even own a—_

“It’s Charlie’s, case you’re wond’rin, Nige.” Andy read his mind, not looking at him as he searched for his chord.

“Oh,” the realisation was slow to slap him around the face. “Gor blimey, do you play guitar too?”

Simon’s shit eating grin said it all.

“Mind if I?” Andy nodded, passing Simon his guitar back. “Let’s see here. My Johnny might like this one…”

Nigel sent a worried glance Andy’s way, who mouthed ‘my Johnny?’ before a very rude gesture. Nigel looked away, oddly ashamed.  
  
  


“It’s very new, I’m just going to strum and see what I like, okay?”

_Andy’s gonna find out._

“Let me know what you think.”

_Find out what, exactly?_

A couple duff notes later and a poor harmony, together the three men found their rhythm, swaying slowly to Simon’s broken chords and soft voice.

“When the sun drips down, beddin’ heavy behind.”

Nigel’s gaze flung open, settling on those beautiful fingers.

“The front of your dress, all shadowy lined.”

His lips fell open, exposing his overbite.

“And the droning engine _throbs_ in ti-ime. With,” there was deep inhale, “ _your_ beat-ing heart.”

Nigel choked out something; he didn’t know what.

“Siiiiiiiing, blu-ue, sil-vuuuurr,” Andy’s mystical voice joined in, flowing perfectly, right on the mark.

That shocked Nigel more than anything Simon had sang. Then together, the two harmonised again; his heart was in his throat.

“Sing, siiiing, blue-ue, silverrrr.”

Nigel let the rhythm sway him, blissfully unaware that now Andy had the guitar back, so stronger notes and harmonies flooded the small space. He strummed, picking up the pace, Simon matching it. At some point his chocolate browns had fallen shut, he was lost in the blessed moment, picturing all sorts of pastel colours, a paradise even.

On the beach, softly strumming away on that prized six string with the embroidered strap. Simon was there, singing his heart out, lit by the tiki torches as Nigel’s feet soaked up the sand. Before them, the tide was coming in, all slow and serene; crashing lightly onto the shore. And then, as the song began to fizzle out, the scene evolved to the two of them, Nigel being pressed down into the sand, being blanketed by the larger body, being kissed softly. Hands in his hair, glasses swiftly taken from his face.

He didn’t need to see when he could feel, feel everything. Feel Simon, ever so close.

Another cough shook him from his daze though Nigel didn’t want to open his eyes just yet. Savouring the last of his little daydream, he spoke softly, not looking at either man. Bringing his knees up, he rested his head atop of them, hugging himself tightly.

  
“It’s _beautiful_.” He was now rocking, the tune still fresh in his mind though neither band mate was playing anymore. “What’s it called?”

There was a hum, Nigel bought his head up.

Simon was right before him, staring deep with intent; into his widening opal eyes.

“I don’t know. Sing Blue Silver.” He shrugged.

Nigel let out a sigh, softly. “That’s… wow, a wonderful name. What does it mean?”

There was a giggle, Simon tapped his nose: a _secret_ , of course it was with him.


	13. I Run The Risk Of Losing You And That’s Worse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from The Buzzcocks _Ever Fallen In Love. ___

“Hey _Johnny_ , I’ve got a bone to pick with you.”

Nigel abandoned the glasses he was washing, they still had a couple hours till the club was set to open. With a gulp; wondering about the use of that nickname, Nigel motioned for the guitarist to join in, as they headed to the secluded cloakroom.

“Sure Ands, what’s up?”

They were sat inches apart, face to face. Yet there was something brewing between them, something the bassist couldn’t place.

“I’m gonna go ahead and cut the crap.”

“Oh? What crap was there to cut?” Nigel sniggered, already feeling caught out.

“Last night at your place, _my Johnny_ ,” Andy cut himself off with a little howl, “what the bleedin’ hell was that about?”

Nigel froze, heart thumping too fast and he was sweating. Hands fumbling in his lap, although it hurt to hear: Andy kept talking.

“Nigel, why does he keep calling you that? You know he’s no fag, right?”

Nigel didn’t answer.

“Right? He ain’t a cock sucker, _Johnny_.” Andy teased, stretching out the nickname. “And the song, what the fuck was that? You blanked out a while, drooling, totally lost on his voice. If I didn’t know no better; I’d say that somebody has a—”

“—Don’t!”

Always a beat behind, Nigel had lurched forward to cup the guitarist’s mouth, stopping him from speaking that one, damn important word. Thank fuck Andy didn’t bite him, to retaliate.

“The hell?”

“Hey Rog, Rog?!” Nigel pulled away, acting as though he hadn’t tried to jump the third Taylor.

And then Roger joined the party, blushing when Andy asked just what he was doing there. In the cloakroom, where only those who worked back here would be.

Roger worked on the door most nights.

_He’s hunting that Giovanna, isn’t he?_

Nigel cocked his head as Roger left, the twinkle in his eyes wasn’t shining like it had been as he’d entered.

_That’s adorable! He’s shyer than usual._

“If anythin’, Ands, _he’s_ the Taylor with the crush here. Not me.”

“Crush? Nige, I never said that about you.”

Trapped. The sly cock of Andy’s blonde brow, the sly cock of his head; spoke volumes. Nigel was panicking, visibly panicking. He quickly figured, what’s the use in fighting, he’d make Andy eat his words.

“Bollocks.” He sighed. _Yep, trapped._

Sniggering, “awwww, look who’s blushing!”

Slapping his arm, Nigel was bought back into the room. “Stop it, stop it man!”

“Awww, so cute!” He was being laughed at, feeling ever so small.

“Fuck off.” Though he didn’t mean it, there was no venom in Nigel’s voice.

“You love him, don’tcha?”

“No.”

“Yes, you _love_ him.”

“No.”

“Yes!”

“No.”

“Yes!”

“No.”

“Only a lovesick twit would say ‘no’ that bleedin’ fast.”

“Only a pain in the arse would take the mick that quick.”

Andy’s jaw dropped slightly. “Well played, man.”

“Thanks Ands.”

“Ha! Caught ya.”

“Wait, what?”

“Ya _lovesick_ twit, you, Nigel John Taylor!”

The ribbing continued a few minutes more, Nigel gave up on dodging the taunts quickly, much to Andy’s surprise. Even a delightful rendition of The Buzzcock’s _Ever Fallen In Love With Someone You Shouldn’t Have Fallen In Love With?!_ graced the guitarist’s mocking lips.

“Shush, shush. Shut that gob.”

Laughing, “if it’s any consolation Nige, I think it’s sweet.”

“You… you do?”

He’d threatened with storming out too during the chorus and was halfway to the door. The change in Andy’s tone stopped him. Slowly, with caution, Nigel turned himself around to hunt for the truth in those light eyes.

“Yeah, you sod. Makin’ my rough edges smooth with your bleedin’ _feelings_.”

He felt the tears coming, he had no idea why.

“C’mon Nigel, tell me about it. I know that I’m right, aren’t I right?”

Before long, Nigel was dragging Andy out the back for a smoke.

“Oh, woah, _now_ you get strong. When you’re bloody _running_ from somethin’ stupid!”

_Huh? Running?_

“Can it. Lighter?”

_Running from… from…_

Andy pried the sacred lighter from his jacket pocket, Nigel snatched it from him.

Shivering, he lit up, coughing on the first pull.

Andy followed, much more confident and stable with the nicotine swirling about his body. They puffed in silence, sharing Nigel’s cigarette, until he took the last puff and let Andy stub it out with his boot.

The cocky look was back, Nigel couldn’t escape. He didn’t want too, really, though perhaps he wished Nick was the one he was having this conversation with.

“So; are we going to talk about it?” Andy began, voice unusually soft and quiet.

“Talk ‘bout what?” Nigel feigned innocence, staring aimlessly into the black of the night swirling around them.

Until he remembered what had been plaguing his mind these last six weeks: Simon wanted Nick, didn’t he?

Nigel shook his head.

“C’mon, where’s that smile Charley loves so much, huh?” Andy jibed, clutching his chin to force Nigel to face him.

There was a hope in those opal eyes, a glint of something wonderful. “He… he does? Uh, who’s Ch-Char…?”

“Yeah, you know who. He ‘ad a mate called Simon and it bleedin’ annoyed the shit outta me, getting all confused! So I blurted out a _very_ kind “Oi! Charley, Simon. Simon, Charley.” Case in point, Nige.”

“Huh, nice.” Breaking away, Nigel didn’t miss the knowing look the guitarist shot his way. Goddamnit, he’d outed himself again.

“And yes, Charley _loves_ that crooked smile. You handsome fuck.”

There was a sniff. Andy visibly reacted, upon seeing the shiver of the taller boy.

“Nigel, hey, hey I want ya to listen to me, alright?”

Together, they slumped down the brick wall to the back of the _Rum Runner_ , hands brushing.

“Nigel, don’t fight it. I know.”

“W-what, Ands, what do you know?” He croaked, bottom lip near trembling.

The guitarist crept even closer, voice dropping to a mere whisper. “It’s _more_ than a crush and you know it, shithead.”

“More than a, a…” He broke off, wincing.

For whatever reason, saying that one word was terrifying. Petrifying, Nigel couldn’t take that step. Somehow it was too much, revealing anything. There was too much at stake. The band was what mattered, not his feelings. What feelings?

“You’d be a complete idiot not to notice.”

“I… I would?”

“Hey, guys, Bossmen Berrow want—” the two Taylors span around, gaping, searching for the body. Simon was right there, well aware that he’d steamrolled straight over something, something important. “Uh, Ands? They want you, some guitar, something something. Yeah, come, when you’re done here.” Simon motioned inside, ready for Andy to follow.

Whispering to Nigel; the deer caught in the singer’s blazing blue headlights, “if it means anything, I _know_ there’s somethin’ here. We rehearsed that song a tad, you deserve a proper serenade though, Nige.”

“You did?” He was astounded, stomach churning. In a nice way.

“Yeah, he wanted me to learn it. Practicin’ and perfectin’ _The Chauffeur_ all week. And now, Nigel, I know why.”

_The Chauffeur?_

Andy left him there, not without a swift press of his hand to Nigel’s quaking shoulder. And a wink.

_That’s so… wow._

“Hey, you okay?” Simon asked, seemingly aware that Nigel was far from it.

“Far from it.” He grunted in reply.

“Can I help? Is it band related?”

_You’ve done enough._

He looked up, shuffling to his feet as a hand was held out before him. Taking it, Nigel shivered, the contact meant something.

“Come on Johnny, turn that frown upsidown.” Nigel grunted again. “No? Shall I get you a drink?” Nigel shook his head. With a sigh, “shall I leave you alone?”

Reluctantly, though it took him a few tries, Nigel nodded.

“Ah okay, goodnight then John.”

Trudging his heels, he followed the front man inside.

_John?_

They were thrust headfirst into a buzzing club, full with goths and punks and new wave fanatics, too much makeup and too many frills. Nigel momentarily wondered how long he had been out back, how much time he had wasted. How far into his shift he now must be.

“Hey Simon, you got a minute? Oh, Nigel, where have you been? I’m ‘bout to start the set.” He heard Nick say, he didn’t try to hunt his figure in the dark. “Want to choose the records?”

Nigel just picked up his pace, shoving his hands in his dark jean pockets and headed straight for the kitchen door. Ignoring both the hollers from Simon and worried cries from Nick; he brushed past Roger, who remained silent, kicking the door shut behind him.

It was far too late until he realised: there was a hot tear falling down his powdery cheek.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, there are different spellings of ‘Charley’ and ‘Charlie’ throughout this fic here.
> 
> This’ll make sense soon!


	14. Hitting An All Time Low

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from Bowie’s _Ashes To Ashes. ___
> 
> Over the course of these fics I have received numerous questions concerning John’s omega status; from baby questions and conceiving to the birth and maternal instincts.
> 
> I’m hoping this chapter helps to answer a few more generic thoughts when concerning the omega trope, body and status. For numerous reasons I haven’t made these stories omega trivia heavy, mainly due to learning things along the way and for John’s character’s own ignorance. Drunken ignorance or huffed ‘forgetting’ and his own sexual libido fluctuating throughout my series.
> 
> His POV here is long before taking any suppressant tablets (to ‘stop’ the heats as revealed in Wedding Sirens and Bird Of Paradise). Only NIGEL HIMSELF has any recollection of the physical changes/emotional traumas of a heat - as you’re about to read here.

Nigel skipped the weekly band meeting, citing a cold. He spent the bulk of the weekend lolling about in his bed, burying himself under the covers as he cried harder and harder. Knowing exactly what was coming, this was only the beginning of the _heat_.

His mother, as always, was his rock. She was always there to dry his tears, be it aged two or nearly at twenty; she’d be right where he needed her.

Now perching at the side of his bed, Jean handed him a steaming mug of hot chocolate, with three marshmallows – just the way he liked it. His hands were shaking as he took the mug, his ruby red mug with a guitar on it. They had come as a set, the other sat in Nick’s kitchen cupboard for when he would go over.

Which reminded him, he hadn’t been around the Bates’ house in a while.

“Thank you, mum.” He breathed, a little red in the face. Raw from the tears he couldn’t understand were still coming.

“How are you feeling, dear?” The dreaded question Nigel would never verbally answer.

He forced a smile, Jean didn’t buy it.

“I know its tough. You’ll get through, you’re a strong boy now.” She felt his head, wincing, as under her warmth he fried.

“Now?” He scoffed, “it’s incredibly _painful_ every bloomin’ time!”

He buried his head in her breasts, after placing the mug aside. He cried, shameless, over and over; knowing this was only the start of the heat. The heat, he couldn’t dare to let Simon see.

Pulling away slightly, though never letting her son go, “what can I do for you, sweetie?” Her voice was pained, knowing that again Nigel would croak out a ‘nothing’, before she was sent out the door so he could batten down the hatches for the next few days.

“Shall I bring the phone in? You can talk to David… or Roberta?”

“Ugh, no.” They’d really grown apart.

Jean nodded swiftly, eyes dropping to her lap. “Talk to me after okay, I know things aren’t right dear. It’s _not_ solely the heat.” She reluctantly stood, Nigel holding out a hand as he watched her turn and go. And go.

The heats only got worse the older he became. The cravings were mad, his emotions a wreck, stomach in knots, slicking it up wherever he went. Every bone in his body told him to ‘mate’, every fibre in his being forcing him to take it out on himself, at the height of the horniness. The height of the pain.

**_Time and again I tell myself._ **

He was an _omega_ , it had been decided at birth and would never change. The older he became, the more noticed he would become. Alphas, as it were, were on the hunt – they were after effeminates like him. Faggots, poofters; whether they had the slightest interest in women or not – it would be the men that won the omega’s heart. A child on the way or not, Nigel needed one. A partner. The hierarchy demanded it, it was the only way he would be safe.

**_I’ll stay clean tonight._ **

Safe, from the abusers, the rapists. Why not be blunt? He didn’t have much to offer a partner, a master, yet. That didn’t mean they couldn’t take their advantage, playing with his heart. Playing with his body.

**_But the little green wheels are following me._ **

When the so called ‘time of the month’ arrived, he’d hole himself away in his room; playing with toys, himself, violent hands on him to fuck himself through the week. He never sought out partners though times were changing. He was of age, twenty this June, alphas were hunting him. Betas were thankful that they weren’t him, other omegas would continue to be berated and used because they were like him.

**_Oh no, not again._ **

Long story short, he was breeding material. That’s what he was made for, put on this planet for… and yet, Nigel was petrified of having a child someday. Having a family, a swarm, a gaggle of Taylors. The _responsibility_. Unlike the gaggle he had now, with Roger and Andy; his own babies. His own _family_.

**_I’m stuck with a valuable friend._ **

That’s what he was put on this Earth for, doomed from the start to deliver. Babies, that was all.

**_I’m happy._ **

Omegas weren’t meant to make anything for themselves, they were made to suffer. No work, no long standing careers; sometimes treated worse than the women – as objects, shamed and demeaned by the alpha males.

**_Hope you’re happy too._ **

Breeding material, that’s what he was. But Nigel wasn’t having any of that yet, reaching for his bottom drawer. Crying through the vibrations, the stimulation, grounding out a harsh sob through the climax. The first of many, he was sure; towels laid out before him and a wash cloth on side.

**_I’m happy. Hope you’re happy too._ **

Fever off the charts, sweat painting his chest; the weekend wasn’t even a bad one, he crawled his way through another heat, no babies yet, slicking it up in the ‘comfort’ of his own bedroom; parents out the way, only his hand coming out to play.

  
***  
  


He welcomed June with his body barely back to himself; if Nigel ever had any control of it to begin with.

Nick always came round the first day things were considered ‘safe’. Nick was a beta, he couldn’t help Nigel out. Though he could listen, douse his face with cool water, hold his hair back when he was sick… he was no alpha male. Nick couldn’t save him from his hell, though he did make the comedown a little sweeter.

Until this heat, right before Nick’s eighteenth birthday. The keyboardist didn’t show.

Nigel was distraught. Feeling bad enough over Simon, not having his supposed best friend by his side when he needed him most hurt. It really hurt.

Though he wondered, scrawling about his journal in haste; how much of a best friend _he_ had been to Nick recently. He hadn’t seen much of Nick, hadn’t spoken much to Nick. Had fumed in silence as Nick made new friends, then left him hollering his way on the dance floor over Simon.

Simon, oh goddamnit. Goddamnit shit.

He flicked to a fresh page, head running faster than his hand could keep up. He was happy, sad, enraged, embarrassed, in need.

Though he stopped, being hit by a figurative freight train when he had written: _in love._

Throughout the heat he had decided, then pitifully climaxed over, his feelings. It was a crush, more than a crush; Simon was his drug and as Ferry would say Nigel _needs to score._

He was becoming desperate, keeping himself away. Throughout the heat he had nothing else on his mind other than Simon, he was the only happiness throughout the worst a boy could feel. His alpha. Maybe now, slamming his journal shut and collapsing into his fresh sheets, maybe now he could have one. A partner; more than a one time thing. More than a fling.  
  


He thought about Andy’s words. _It’s more than a crush and you know it, shithead._

“Well, I _am_ a shithead.” He voiced, in frustration.

_If it means anything, I know there’s something there._

“I’m… I’m in…” He voiced it out loud, tears forming in his eyes. “I’m in...” He repeated, like a mantra. “Wait, Nigel.”

_I know there’s somethin’ here. That’s what Andy had said._

“Ands was right, it’s more than a crush, you know it.”

_You’d be a complete idiot not to notice._

“I’m in _...”_

He tossed and turned all night, somewhat wanting to squeal into his pillow and scream from the rooftops.

“I’m in love.”

**_Love Is The Drug I’m thinking off._ **

****

“I’m in _love!_ ” He screeched, well past 3AM, right into his stuffed rabbit, battered and bruised, lovingly sewn and restitched.

Wait, the song. _Yeah, he wanted me to learn it. And now, Nigel, I know why._

**_Love Is The Drug for me._ **

“Does that, Christ, does that mean?” He was on his knees, praying to the divinity that was sure to turn him away at heavens door. “Does that, d-does that mean… Simon might just, you know God, l- _love_ me too? Could anyone love _me?_ ”

Nigel tucked himself under the covers, feeling the tingle. Feeling his body visibly react to the one name falling from his lips: Simon. Simon. _Simon_.

“I’m in _love._ ”

He’s in love for the first time. Maybe, just maybe, that love was requited…


	15. You Know What You’re Living For, He’ll Give You So Much

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title adapted from Roxy Music’s _Sentimental Fool. ___

“So, what do you both think?!”

Nigel was beaming, cuddled in nice and tight with Nick on the cruddy squat’s sofa. Nick, who too was beaming.

“I can’t quite believe you managed to keep that quiet, Simon!” Nick remarked, a tinge of surprise evident.

They shared a glance, then hugged it out; Nigel sure to send meaningful embraces all round too. He’s gotten better at those so-called ‘hugs.’

“Well…” Simon half sang, using his ‘jazz hands’ or whatever Nigel was meant to call them. “I can _try_ to keep ya outta the loop, Bates!” He noted with a giggle.

Nick barked back a laugh, now back beside Nigel again.

For Nick’s eighteenth and Nigel’s twentieth; the other three band mates had somehow wrangled a group trip to London to celebrate. They’d each take the nights of the thirteenth and fourteenth of June off work, for the trip down south. At some point, Roger’s mother had spoken to his own and the two Jeans and Sylvia were more than happy to pitch in a tad. All out from under Nigel’s shark nostrils…

“And the Bossmen?”

“The Berrows don’t mind,” Simon spoke, directly at Nigel.

“They know we don’t ‘ave a demo tape with Simon on yet but uh, they’re cool with us goin’… as long as we take a tape with us.” That was the most Roger had said this entire evening.

“Makes sense, yeah.” Nigel found himself looking back at Nick, as small smile caressing his face.

“Eh, Nigel!”

He searched for the voice, as the weight of the sofa beside him dipped.

“Happy early birthday, man.”

Before he had chance to register it, Nigel was being pulled into a half hug by Simon; who appeared to still be riding on the highs of the revelation. He pulled away, eyeing the front man with a sideways glance.

Neither of them really had much money, be it through work or not. Nigel really did wonder if this whole scheme was down too—

“Simon, pizza’s here!” Andy chirped, the front man was up and running for the front door key. “You mention food and he’s outta ‘ere, faster than light!” Andy snarked, directed right at Nigel.  
  


“That could make a nice song title, Andrew.”

“… _Thanks,_ Nick.”

Nigel watched Simon go, oddly wondering if he really was a gift of the Gods or something. Really questioning what was in it for Simon. It would be the first time they’d really be going away with their new front man, a time for bonding and solidifying their friendship or some shit.

A prospect that all of a sudden, had Nigel’s throat threatening to close in on him.

The pizza was good, as always. As was the bottle of beer. Nigel wasn’t down for a second, he was down for heading home for a warm bath or whatever. A small, dainty hand stopped him at the door to the squat. Squinting, he watched the rest of the lads begin walking away; leaving he and Nick barely illuminated by the crappy porch light above them.

Turning to Nick, he was met by a somber expression. He appeared guilty almost, holding Nigel’s gaze but they both knew it to be a struggle. Walls had been erected between them, though Nigel had been sure those walls weren’t just in his own mind.

“Hey Nigel, I wanted to…” He broke off with a shiver. “I wanted to, well, apologise for not comin’ over after your heat.”

Nigel’s brows shot up, not that Nick could really see that behind the shaggy fringe. That wasn’t at all what he had expected.

“Oh, uh, yeah… not a problem, man. Don’t mention it.” Nigel coughed out, gaze veering off of Nick’s shoulder.

“Are you sure? Some shit came up with Simon, he’s lookin’ to try and record…”

Nigel thoroughly phased out. Simon this and Simon that, he really was driving himself into madness. Torturing himself over how close he and Nick were becoming, how solid he and Nick were sure to become.

Nigel waved him off again, without word he was hopping down the steps into the street, leaving Nick and the squat behind.


	16. An Amateur Band Rehearsing In A Nearby Yard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from The Jam’s _That’s Entertainment._  
>  _  
> _A little flash back down JoNi lane..._  
>  _

Nick’s eighteenth was somewhat a low-key classy affair, at his parents place in Moseley. The band spent Sunday, June 8th gnawing away at Sylvia Bates’ _damn fine_ roast – Nigel noted, per the norm – then wasting the evening getting wasted on baby videos and photographs of the keyboardist.

The Bates family were always so welcoming… and keen to embarrass Nicholas in any which way they could, it seemed.

Nigel kept watch out of the corner of his eye, Simon had plonked himself right beside the birthday boy: now ready to cut his homemade Victoria sponge. Simon had been softly ribbing him all night, short and snappy retorts that had Nigel sniggering into his orange juice glass.

“And here’s band line up… uh, fifteen?!” Roger motioned to the slide, hours later, now having firmly found his place at the Runner. “Seventeen?”

“You boys had a _clarinet_ player? What the actual hell?!” Simon couldn’t help himself, sending the group into a frenzy of giggles.

“Thankfully, I missed that tat!” Andy wagged his brows, Simon only sniggered.

“Oh _God_.” Nigel grunted, being face to face with the same tattered ruby and black striped jumper on the slideshow. The one he was still wearing now, with the hole in the neck.

“Nick, what the bleeding hell are you wearing there? How many _muppets_ died to become the mop on your head?!” Simon snorted, the whole crowd erupting into another giggling fit.

Thankfully, after that single glass of wine; the birthday boy had loosened up enough to be laughing with them.

Then Nigel was giggling like a tit, trying not to blow any bubbles; Simon thoroughly ribbed them _both_ as a slideshow of some Nick and Nigel moments were plastered to the screen.

“Awww, look at little Johnny!”

“Johnny?” Nigel craned his neck up, catching Nick’s father Roger’s confused glance.

He swallowed audibly, bringing his knees up to rest under his chin.

“Look how cute you were!”

“ _Were?!_ ” He shot back at Simon.

They were staring at a fading photograph of the two best friends, having just queued all night for Roxy Music tickets. Nick always insists that _he_ was the first to take Nigel to a concert, ’72-ish, though it is hard for Nigel to explain: Nick was only eleven!

Then another pleased sigh from the audience, the two were posing in some very questionable disco diva garb. Nigel sent a worried glance Simon and Andy’s way: ready for more ribbing. And several more well savoured photographs, two lanky and pasty boys sharing clothing, women’s clothing and then sharing a suit from _BHS_ cropped up on screen.

All sights that Nigel really didn’t need Simon to see. The front man was holding back his rain, his taunts, that was for sure.

***  
  


As the night crept upon them, the group were on their respected routes back home.

“You guys know the way now, right?”

With a snigger, “yeah Johnny! You take a left at them bollards, head down to that crappy park where someone got _stabbed_ last week. Take a right at the news agents where they got _robbed_ last week… another couple streets over, past the X-Rated video store and _bingo!_ Apartment building is on the left of the brothel.”

_Brothel!_

Blinking rapidly, the bassist turned to face Simon, wondering whether he was meant to be laughing.

“Think ya mean chippy, Simon!” Andy called, provoking a small giggle from the singer.

Nigel and Andy were walking side by side, bidding farewell to Roger as he headed for the bus back to Castle Bromwich.

“Oh Lord, Nigel, I trust you to make sure they get ‘ome _safely_.” The drummer uttered, thick accent shining through.

Nigel sent a wink his drummer’s direction, before he climbed aboard.

The remaining band mates were nearing Andy and Simon’s rather _interesting_ and _colourful_ estate. Though Nigel found his steps to be small and laboured, he really didn’t want his night to end. It was only coming up on seven thirty, he really didn’t want to be alone again so soon.

It seemed as though Andy had read his mind.

“Hey Nigel, whatd’ya say we—”

“—Yes.”

A blink. “I didn’t say—”

“—Yes, Ands. Yeah, let’s do sommet, let’s stay out.”

With a low whistle, “it _is_ a Sunday night boys. I do want my Johnny in bed by eleven! He’s got school in mornin’!”

Sniggering, Nigel dared to let a hand caress Simon’s arm. “Oh, Simon.”

Andy gagged in response. Nigel stepped back.

“So, wanna come up for a while?”

Nigel nodded, deciding to follow them to their place; ignoring the roundabout that would lead him back home.

“Wanna play cards or somethin’? I don’t ‘ave the dosh for a bet but uh, shite, we can use… tortilla chips! Or try work on a song?”

Nigel piped up at the singer’s words. He gulped audibly, studying his suede boots as he worked the answer around his mouth.

“Nigel?” Andy prompted.

Together they plodded, muttering about whatever and clutching each other tight.

“You know what? I’d really like too… like too… uh…” _hear that song again._ “The song, Simon, you played before my—” _don’t say heat, do not say heat!_ “My… self isolation period.”

“Self iso- what?!”

He waved them off. “The song, I wanna ‘ear it again, kay?”

Though Summer was calling, Nigel still felt the chill. There they stood, atop those same stone steps as Andy fiddled about for a key to let them in.

“Of course, my Johnny.” _There was mockery in that tone, surely!_

With Simon and Andy beside him, on Simon’s right; he felt the heat and decided that yes – he can go on.

“Your humble abode awaits, my dear Taylor.” Simon’s smile was huge as he held out a hand, letting Nigel into his domain.

Nigel could’ve leapt into those open arms right then and there. He almost did.


	17. And Now I’m Lying Here, Waiting For The Sound Of Thunder

Betting for tortilla chips seemed quickly off the table. The three remaining band mates shuffled into Simon and Andy’s hidey hole of a living room, Nigel creeping around the joint as the faint smell of damp, smoke and some other slightly nauseating thing filled his shark nostrils.

The minutes passed, Nigel was hooked on that voice. The small hitches, cracks, as though Simon’s vocal was skipping on the track; somehow sounding even more vulnerable in the more open and eerie space. _The Chauffeur_ truly was magnificent, even if it was only a single, solemn vocal backed by the soft strum of a six string.

Honestly, Nigel didn’t know what was wrong with it. To him, this version, the one that Simon poured every emotion into, swaying ever so slightly as he sang; eyes closed and with feeling: this version was perfect. To Nigel, at least.

“I have another.” Simon was almost shy, eyes planted on his lyric book which lay sombre beside him atop the worn in sofa bed. “Would ya like another?”

Nigel yawned, quick to stifle it as he nodded frantically. He was still over come with emotion, clinging to those strums and licks, needing _The Chauffeur_ to stay fresh in his mind. Wanting it there, wanting the song to provide a comfort of sorts.

As though he could hear Simon’s voice, when he’s not really there.

“It’s not much but, yeah, lemme know what you guys think.”

Simon was quick to pat his thigh, marking out a drum beat. Not too fast, not too slow.

Nigel watched him inhale a deep breath, voice hitching and falling as the front man found a pitch he was happy with. To Nigel, it was all perfect.

“I’ve been in this grass here, for the last ten hours. My clothes are dirty but my mouth isn’t dry.”

Nigel had settled into the corner of the tattered sofa, sitting cross legged with his hands in his lap. He was more than a little aware of a situation _arising,_ he chose to ignore it. With a giggle to himself.

“How does it happen? Does it fly through the air? Oh, I gave up asking…”

_There’s a way._

“There’s a way.”

His head tipped back, eyes roaming the buttery lights above him. In his head, he was writing a score. Wanting to drum away with Simon, wanting to pluck away at his bass strings. It was coming to him, something was, something important.

“And now I’m lying here, waiting for the sound of thunder.”

“What!” Nigel’s head shot forward, comically.

The two band mates turned to him, Simon seemingly miffed that Nigel had interrupted him.

That line sounded oddly familiar. The world was spinning too fast, he might just fly off.

“Yo, Nigel.”

“Calling Planet Earth, to Nigel!”

“Huh? W-what? Oh.”

“You okay, man?” There was a hand waving in his face, his attention snapped to Andy.

“Yeah, yeah. Why wouldn’t it be?” He babbled back. “ _I_ be! I, not the song! The song’s great… bloody great.”

“Right.” Andy answered, not at all convinced. “Be right back.”

The guitarist upped for the bathroom, Simon was quick to take his place besides the bassist on the sofa. Simon reached a hand out, chewing his bottom lip. As though he was waiting for Nigel’s seal of lyrical approval, eyes dropping to their interlocked fingers.

Simon dropped them with a cough.

“So, what’dya think?”

Simon wasn’t looking at him.

Somehow, Nigel held his gaze.

“I recognised it. Why did I?” He wondered aloud, cursing himself for having spoken.

Then it hit Nigel, harder than any slap to the back of the pretty head Nick could’ve given him with his own bass.

“Simon,” he began, weary, “why do I know that line? That… uh, _title?_ ”

Simon finally raised his gaze. There was a look of, Nigel didn’t really know what, painting his handsome face. It was cheeky, he supposed, though there was still an aura of guilt between the two boys.

“You sang that before, didn’t you?” Nigel gulped audibly, hands creeping forward. Simon was mere inches from his right, his finger tips traversed the tattered sofa cushion further. “When… you know, when you… when _we_ uh, in the Runner… in the bathroom. The first time.”

He mentally kicked himself, that was vague as hell.

“Simon. You… correct me if I’m totally off me ‘ead here but fuck, you sang that. That line, the first time we… ahem, we met.”  
  


_When I bumped into you. When you retrieved my glasses. When you gave me sight for the first time, a clarity I had never known._

“Back in April, your audition, eh?”

_Poetic, eh?!_

Nigel’s calloused finger tips were resting, antsy, ever so close to another pair of restless ones.

“Simon, I remembered it. _Sound Of Thunder,_ I really like it.”

Those finger tips latched onto his own.

Nigel’s eyes were focused on the table before him, stray tortilla chips and salsa atop of it. His gaze fell to a couple interesting adult magazines beside that, a tiny radio. He couldn’t quite bring his line of sight down and to the right, right where their fingers interlocked, where their palms brushed.

“Andy!” Simon practically jumped out of his seat, quick to shove the guitar back into the man’s hands. “Think we’ve had enough of this tonight huh? Johnny needs to get home, soon.”

“I do?” Nigel piped up, schooling his expression into ‘calm’.

_Think that’s the end to this all night party in room… whatever bloody room number this shithole is._

He was the furthest thing from calm.

“I do.” His heart was racing a mile a minute, he was quivering, stumbling to his feet. “Think I’m gon’…” he yawned, somewhat forcibly, “gonna get outta ya hair, see you both at the club, tomorrow.”

Simon did guide him to the door. Simon did unlock it and hold a hand out like a true gentleman, worry evident in his tone as he wished Nigel a safe trip back. It wasn’t far, though far enough that something could happen to him.

It was a rough neighbourhood, day or night. He could walk it blindfolded, he may aswell with his eyes. Nigel shucked on his denim jacket, shuffling out of there. Not giving Simon another glance.

He acted as though his fingers weren’t still tingling from where he had been touched. Being touched the way, he wanted to be touched. Hearing the words, he wanted to hear. He acted as though he wouldn’t be pitifully coming to the mere _thought_ of those fingers, laid on him or not, later that night.


	18. Rebel Rebel, Your Face Is A Mess

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from Bowie’s _Rebel Rebel. ___

He didn’t really speak to Simon much again that week, band business were near back in full form. The majority of the time they spent together, Simon was off doing something lyric related whilst Nigel kept himself in his happy place: Roger.

The two Taylors had been having a hell of a time trying to come up with the percussion for their new rendition of Girls On Film. Though by the constant frustrated frets on Andy’s end, endless tinkering with the same six piano keys from Nick’s Wasp synth: the whole crew were getting nowhere with that one.

That upset Nigel somewhat, it really did. Maybe that song wasn’t a sure fire hit, perhaps it was a B-side barely in the making. Oh well, he shrugged it off; instead gearing up for his night shift on the door with the drummer, poorly greeting the club goers and hiding behind that thick fringe.

“You know Rog, I’ve been meaning to ask.”

Roger let in a group of pasty-faced teenagers, hair teased to the heavens, before turning to him. “Ask what?”

Roger had always been incredibly shy and quiet when concerning his personal life. In fact, the only time he really let loose was when he was at that drum kit. Louder than anyone else in the room and loving himself for it. He didn’t have his drums and cymbals to hide behind here though, with the bassist.

“Has anythin’ happened with, oh y’know, that Giovanna yet?”

Though the sun had long since dripped down, bedded heavy behind the buildings surrounding the club; it wasn’t dark enough yet that Nigel couldn’t make out the blush coating his fellow Taylor’s face.

“Rog?”

“Uh, yeah? What’s up?”

With a giggle, a slow blink, “ _Giovanna_. She mentioned anything to ya, yet?”

There was a moment, Nigel inwardly willing Roger to crack. He shook his head, eyes averted.

“Oh, really?” Nigel tried fishing for more. “You sure? She really seems too, oh I dunno, _like_ you.”

Roger nodded.

“Do you think you might just, y’know, like _her_ too?”

Roger nodded.

Nigel couldn’t hide the little triumphant smile as it formed, ruby tinted lips cocking up.

“Why don’t you ask her to come with us, this weekend?” He blurted, not really sure why he wanted to make their band getaway a ‘couples retreat’.

Not that Roger and Giovanna were a couple or anything yet but uh…

“Nah, it’s a band thing Nigel. You know that.”

But he’s not part of a _couple_ either, is he?

“Yeah, yeah alright.”

Nor is Simon… right?

Nigel’s gaze dropped to his hands, he could really use a cigarette. “Quick fag break, what d’ya say?”

He really hoped Roger had a pack on hand, he was fresh out.

Roger nodded, shucking out a cigarette for the bassist. He lit it, let Nigel take the first drag before passing it between them. Watching the idle flame that pulsed, the nicotine swirling up into his head, Nigel felt more at ease, limbs impossibly more sinew, now craving a drink.

“You know Rog,” he began, stubbing the cigarette out, “I really think you two… yeah. You might, she might be the one?”

“Woah!” There was a nervous laugh.

“No, no I can see it. The way she was talkin’ about you when I first met her. The other day, she was eyein’ us up at the door. She’s always gigg’lin’ when you talk to ‘er… Rog, I’m sure of it! You should go for it!”

Roger said nothing, per the norm.

“Seriously man, ask her to come with this weekend. Share a room, get a little bit closer… lil nookie…”

“ _Alright!_ ” Nigel practically jumped out of his pasty near translucent skin. “Stop it, Nige.”

“Am I making ya’s uncomfortable? Shall I stop now?” He giggled, Roger was surely flushing beside him. _Rebel Rebel, Rog’s face is a mess!_ “Or you could just—”

He pointed back into the club. There was a small room in there, in the back, that was really gaining a reputation amongst young quivering things. Lovers, who couldn’t quite keep themselves to themselves the whole taxi ride home. Who needed to quench that thirst, ‘locking’ themselves in for some more… _private_ fun.  
  


“Ha, yeah. Right after I catch you jerkin’ off over Charley, I might just get Gio in there.” Roger spat, uncharacteristically full of confidence, before strutting straight past a mind blown Nigel.

“… wow.” Was all that he could say, feeling the heat.

Whirling about on his heel, needing a rum and whatever more so than before, Nigel paraded straight back into the club. Hands in his pockets, head down, chin brushing up against the white satin bow round his neck, he ran straight into—

“Goddamnit!”

_Nice one, Taylor._

He was somewhat covered in cocktails. Ever so spread out, satin mopping up the drink.

“Crap, sorry Simon.”

“No, no don’t be. I wasn’t watching where I was going. More than ready to ask just whom you’re ‘bout ready to _jerk off_ too in that secret slut closet Andy keeps saying we should try and all… fuck, I’m sorry Nigel.”

_Nigel._

“Oh uh, I mean Johnny.”

_That’s better._

“Oh shit, how am I gonna get this… wine? That wine? What even is the orange thing?!” Nigel aptly pointed to each spillage, decorating the shirt ever so charismatically. 

With a giggle, “that’d be orange _juice,_ Johnny.”

“Oh, okay.” He flushed, eyes bugging wide like an angel’s would. “Dang it, Roberta’s not gonna be gettin’ this shirt back now! She’ll ‘ave a _fit_ when she sees what we did to it!”

“Ha, what _we_ did?!” There was an inquisitive raising of a blonde eyebrow. “Roberta? Is she…” Nigel could practically hear the smirk. “Is she a special little lady, in my special little Johnny’s life?!”

Simon was practically bouncing, having somewhat forgotten that they were both stood in a pool of cocktails and Nigel was painted with the bulk of the drink.

“No, no Simon no! It’s over.”

“Oh, really? She dump ya for Nick or something?” He was chuckling, now on his knees to gather the glasses. Thankfully, they were plastic. Some of them.

“What? Oi, no!”

“You get _bored_ of her? She didn’t put out? You came too soon and she just wasn’t having it? You didn’t even get inside her?”

“Wow, wait a min—”

“—She took your virginity, didn’t she?!” Simon steamrolled straight over him, laughing to himself. He beckoned Nigel to the kitchen, still needing to be mopped up himself. “She did… she did a number on you, I can tell! Look, you’re blushin’ brighter than those ruby lips of yours!”

“Git, I feel victimised.” He swore under his breath, shaky of course. “I need a new shirt.”

With a snort, “those cruddy bathroom towels, go!”

Simon steered them both to the grotty club bathroom, Nigel was practically shoved straight up against the mirror. The same damn mirror, where all their uh – could he even say — _moments_ always took place.


	19. Dynamite With A Laser Beam, Guaranteed To Blow Your Mind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from Queen’s _Killer Queen. ___

“So, this chick Roberta huh? Your first love?”

“Shut up.” He immediately apologised, stumbling over the revelation. “Nick said to get at her, y’know?”

Sniggering, “Nick did? He’s got your best interests at heart, don’t he?”

“Erm…”

“For the band’s image, you got at her?”

Nigel’s face fell.

“We had a thing for a… uh, a little while and okay fine, she took my you know what but bollocks, she’s not for me. Okay Simon? Shut up.”

Nigel cursed himself for the cliché inching it’s way across his mind, wondering what their ‘moment’ was to be tonight.

“Was the sex good?”

“I don’t…” _you fucking came as soon as she mounted you._ “Umm, it wasn’t _no_.”

_You don’t want girls. You don’t need them now._

“The first time never is, no worries mate. You done it a lot, since?”

Nigel’s mouth dropped open comically. “Hey! Boundaries!”

Their moment… what moment? It was fading, ever so quickly. Smelling of a range of fresh-ish fruits, mingled with his own sweat and powdered product: Nigel was a damn fine rainbow cocktail tonight.

Emphasis on the rainbow.

“C’mere, Dolly.”

“Whatcha gon’ yank your _Dolly_ by the hair?”

Simon chuckled, confirming it. “By the hair.”

Simon yanked him forward by the bow tie, the knot slipping free from around Nigel’s neck.

“And I sense the rhythm humming, in a frenzy all the way down _your_ spine.”

“Yeah.” Nigel breathed. Breathless.

They were ever so close, both boys giggling as they fumbled to remove Nigel’s inky satin shirt.

Running the tap, the bassist tossed a few paper towels over to the singer who wet them, silently debated where to _attack_ Nigel with them, before attacking Nigel with them. He was chuckling softly, hissing over the cool water as it bled through the satin fabric, straight to his pasty skin beneath.

Simon’s fingertips were splayed out in full, lightly massaging a stain right atop of Nigel’s left breast. Atop his beating heart, nipple hardening in his wake. _Shit._

“Crap, Simon, this isn’t working!” They scrambled for more towels and soap. “What the hell gets stains outta _satin?_ ”

“Beats me!” Simon was all but making things worse, huge hands running themselves all over Nigel’s lanky torso. “Take the damn thing off, already!”

Nigel stopped giggling.

He felt the shame sink in, horribly. Trembling fingertips crept down to the hem of the shirt, ever so slowly inching it up and up his scrawny body. He kept his head down best he could, before raising his arms up to pry the fabric from him. There was a swoosh, an audible screech that he’d really gone and done it: bared all. Just like that because Simon said to do so.

“Johnny?”

In the haze of the club, usually Nigel’s skin would be pelted by sweat, coated in a fine sheen. Nowadays he was drinking a little more, starting to adjust to the alcohol flushing his pasty palette. Though tonight, he only felt the chill. Face to face in this secret place, he felt the chill.

“John?”

Bringing his arms up to fold, Nigel shivered as the goosebumps formed and he failed at taming them. He was skin on bone, limbs too gangly and ribs too prominent. Too prominent nipples, little erect mounds that were longing for touch. Not a single hair on his chest, yet, either.

“Nigel?”

Whiter than the whitest of white sheets.

“Nigel?”

Though a little trail of hair was beginning to form down south, beneath his belly button coating the ticklish skin.

“ _Nigel!_ ”

“Hmm, Simon wot?”

“You can look at me you know! Surely the _view_ won’t _kill_ you!”

He truly hadn’t felt so ashamed in a long time. Though his clothes weren’t always so fitted or revealing, this was another level of stripped back that he couldn’t handle right now.

Without word, he hadn’t even noticed Simon slipping off his uniform shirt, Nigel’s slender and scrawny body was being enrapt in Simon’s own black button down. The singer didn’t do the buttons for him, though did feel the shivers. Nigel was sure of that, wanting to cry as he felt those huge hands settle on his shoulders in an attempt at steadying him.

“Beautiful.”

More than a little deep in the red, skin deeper than strawberry. Skin darker than the lipstick cherry that still coated his lens. He was falling into Simon’s open arms.

“You’re beautiful, Johnny.” His voice was soft, fond, distinctive enough to pull Nigel from his own traitorous thoughts. “I’ll get you your coat, where abouts did you leave it?”  
  


Simon was already at the door, shirtless. “Wait!” He croaked, blushing now his shielded eyes were roaming up the lightly muscled frame. “You can’t… Simon, y’know you can’t go out like _that!_ ”

Nigel’s fingertips were shaky as he slid on the baggier shirt, trembling as he fastened the buttons. The cotton was so soft, a silken luxury which felt like heaven on his skin.

“Eh, to hell with it. It’s a _club,_ Johnny!” Simon barked back, about ready to slam the door in his face. “I’ll check with that cloakroom chick, or Fiona.”

Simon did slam the door. It was almost enough to shake Nigel from his newfound cocoon of an outfit, the stench of Simon rife on the fabric. Rife on Nigel’s still somewhat fruity smelling skin.


	20. Eyes Like An Angel, So Wide

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Twenty chapters, it’s fab five time!!
> 
> This fic is finally finished in its draft. I look forward to sharing the remaining chapters with you all, throughout November.

The rest of the week was full of band rehearsals, laying down tracks and planning the next demo reel. The days in which they were to be performing as the in-house band under Simon’s lead were drawing ever closer, they had to be ready.

They also had to make up for the time the ‘fab five’ would be taking off this weekend.

Instead of splashing out on train tickets, someone insisted on hiring a car and doing the drive. Nigel cursed, knowing he’d be hunched over in the back seat with his knees practically in his chin: too scrawny and limbs too lengthy to really fit.

“Fear hangs a blaze of gun smoke!” Simon was quick to create a pistol with his fingers, eyes on his right hand.

“Simon! Two hands on the wheel!” Nick barked, from up front.

“Oh alright!” He resumed the ten and two positions… for two seconds. “Driftin’ in our room!” Simon ‘blew out’ the ‘smoke’ from his ‘pistol’.

“Christ, you’ll bloody crash the car!” Andy sniggered, stuffed in between Roger and Nigel in the backseat.

“You’re one to talk, Andrew. I’m in the _danger seat,_ you all are fine back there!”

The three Taylors giggled at Nick’s words, snuggled up close and _secure_ in the back.

_Seat belts are mandatory now, ain’t they?_

“With a careless memory!” Simon was quick to guide the group. “With a careless memory!”

“Imagine how hot we’ll all look, singing the ruddy track in the back of the car!”

After much debate, Simon was the one who would be driving. Because A) He actually knew the way and did the drive often. B) He was the only one who could negotiate the freaking M25. C) Neither Nick or Nigel had drivers licenses. D) Andy probably wasn’t insured. E) Roger would be half asleep, anyways.  
  


_Me mum can’t drive either. Jacko tried to teach her years ago, I was like… oh I dunno, four maybe? Anyways, she barely screeched the thing out of park and freaked out. You know she had one driving lesson and decided she wasn’t gonna drive. Then blamed me for bouncin’ about in the back seat, putting her off._

“Look out, look out, look out!”

The five of them somehow squished into the crummy _Citroên_ , it really could become the band’s luxe tour bus…

“You know I’ve been meanin’ to ask, guys.” Nigel spoke, staring hard at the silver streamlined _Aston Martin_ in the lane next to them. _Fuck, that’s a sweet ride._

“Yeah, what is it?” Nick replied, from up front.

He bit into his bottom lip, still ogling over the car. “What d’ya all think should be on the demo?”

There was a little murmur, even Roger decided to speak!

“As Girls On Film don’t seem to be gettin’ anywhere, yet.” He continued, now turning to face the Taylors beside him.

“I think _Planet Earth,_ I love what you’re doin’ on guitar for that one, mate.” Roger nudged Andy, who gave a little bow. “And the bass… that’ll stick.”

Nigel smiled, ever so shyly.

“And for the B-side?”

“I dunno,” Simon paused, citing the exit approaching, “we could use some covers, maybe?”

“Now _that’s_ an idea, man!” Andy chirped.

“Didn’t you guys do some covers before I joined the group? Blondie or uh, Hazel O’ Connor or somethin?”

“Here and there, yeah.” Nigel caught those baby blue eyes, glancing upwards into the rear view mirror.

“Some stuff with my old band, Scent Organs yeah. Nothin’ we really loved here though, Simon.” Roger shrugged, eyes following that of Nigel’s, landing on the bassist’s in the rear mirror view.

Nigel’s gaze dropped, falling to his lap. The strain there. He coughed, wiping at his nose before flicking the hair from his face. Outside the thoughts come flooding back now, he can’t try to forget: “hey uh, what ‘bout… Come up and see me?”

There was another murmur, a consideration.

“The way Simon did it, at his audition.” It was merely a whisper.

“The way I did what, my Johnny?” Nigel was forced to meet that sly gaze again, he could tell that Simon was smirking as he took them for a spin.

“Yeah, y’know, back at your audition – all slowed down an’ _soft_.”

There was a giggle, Nigel knew that voice anywhere. It was Nick, he was warming up to the idea. Either that or he planning on ambushing his best friend: really wondering why Nigel wanted to record such a cover.

“Never ‘eard anything like it, you know, Simon.”

_Cockney Rebel_ _‘s_ _his favourite._ He didn’t say.  
  


“I think he’s onto sommet. Anyone else?” Nigel squirmed slightly at the drummer’s few words, hands raising all around him.

“Well then, _Johnny_ ,” Andy leant right into his space with a cheeky grin, “it’s settled. Charley and I can try workin’ on it back in Brum.”

Nigel blushed deep, Andy was more than aware of it.

“And some Bowie, perhaps?” Nick insisted, having been trying to get the Ziggy on the set list a while now.

“Could be, could be. But for now!”

“Five, six, seven, eight!”

The whole car erupted, pitchy and giggly, ever so stupid. Ever so fun, they rattled off the ‘oooohhh ooh, la la la’s’ and Nigel found himself to be blushing even deeper, the closer they got to their swanky _Holiday Inn_.

  
***  
  


“Bollocks man, one of ya have to switch rooms with me! Nick’ll drive me mad this weekend, you know how it is, Nige!”

He sniggered. Yes, he really did know.

Stood beside Simon and a flaky bandit of a guitarist before them, Simon was the first to speak. “Why don’t you double up with Roger then, Johnny you can go with Nick if you want?”

“No!”

A cough. A giggle. “No?”

“I answered that far too fast, didn’t I, Simon?”

Another giggle. “That you did.”

Nigel began chewing his cuticles, the ultimate tell tale sign of nervousness.

“Christ! How many times have I told you, Nigel, stop that!” Nick appeared at his side, reluctantly Nigel dropped his hand.

“Okay fine, Nick can either take up a room alone or join the other Taylors. Birthday Boy’s choice.”

There was a heavy glance between both Gemini’s, Simon’s words seeming to hit home. Nigel couldn’t read the expression that painted those heavily kohl-lined eyes and pinky lips, Nick let slip a cheeky smile before replying: “I know where I’m not wanted.”

He winked, Nigel could’ve choked on his tongue.

Nick slipped from their sight, both boys a little irked by the keyboardist’s reply.

“The hell did that mean?” Nigel voiced aloud, not giving Simon the chance to answer. “Well, that settles it then! You and me… me and you… sharing a, a uh, a _hotel_ room together!” Nigel forced down the bile rising in this throat to keep talking. “Yeah, you and me. Together. All weekend.”

_Oh, Lordy Lordy._

Simon rolled his eyes, taking his hand in his own, headed for the stairs. “Can’t wait.”

Trailing up two flights of stairs with his hold-all was more tiring than it should’ve been. Simon joked about carrying him over the threshold and Nigel slapped his arm. Simon feigned being badly hurt and Nigel was rubbing over the spot he slapped, apologising with a cute chuckle.  
  


Simon shoved the key in the lock, Nigel’s breath was caught in his throat as he twisted the knob.

_Ahem._

“Well then. Damn, this is good!”

The room was on the small side, there was a little cupboard and two teeny bedside tables with lamps. The en-suite was beside the door, leading to the beds and fold out sofa.

“Oh fuck.”

“You’ve gotta be kidding, Johnny! Fresh sheets, florals… the place don’t reek of piss! It’s glorious!”

Both boys looked at eachother. And look at that: there was only one bed.

Nigel choked on air.

With a chuckle, a cheeky glint in his eyes, “I’ll take the sofa, bet you won’t like me sneakin’ the covers from ya in the middle of the night!” Simon flopped atop of the sofa, totally misjudging it, landing straight on his arse on the carpet instead. “Ah! Blimey!”

Nigel was howling with laughter, holding a hand out to help Simon back to standing.

“Let’s try that again, huh?” This time, Simon’s arse landed where it was supposed too. “Much better.”

Nigel eyed the abandoned luggage, beside the double bed laying in the midst of the room. White, pristine sheets. Four pillows, two blankets. The hell with it.

“Nonsense,” he croaked, “Simon, c’mere. S-sl, uh, _sleep_ with… sleep with _me_ here.”

Both gazes widened comically at those shy and stunted words.

“Not like that!” Nigel giggled nervously, hiding his smile behind his hands. “Just… yeah, come on!”

“You talkin’ to me or the floor?”

With a cough, he bought his head up. “Uh, you.”

Simon was now stood before him, eclipsing him by an inch or two. His voice was soft, firm. “Are you sure? It’s really no problem for me to sleep on…”

Nigel could’ve sworn his voice dulled to nothing. He was stood mere inches from the front man, toes touching, noses ever so close to brushing and he could feel light breaths tickling his cheeks. He dropped his gaze, sure that Simon had done the same.

With a surprised squirm, a strong hand had clasped his jaw; angling Nigel back up to get lost in those steely blues. Galaxies were swirling in them, glistening in the low light. They were leaning in ever closer, lips parting and eyes dropping closed…

“Alrighty then!” Simon pulled back with a laugh, hopping straight onto the bed. He pat the covers once, sprawled out so he was resting on his left side. Then pat the covers again.

With a nervous gulp, “ya sleep naked, don’t you?”

There was another cheeky waggle of blonde brows.

“Fuck.”

Simon sensed the concern, shuffling over on his knees right before Nigel, who towered above him.

“I won’t, don’t worry about that Johnny.”

“I sleep naked too, uh, usually.”

Simon’s snigger bought him back down to planet Earth. “Eyes like an angel eh? You’re no angel in a _Catholic_ household are ya?! Crikey!”

“I can’t help myself, it’s a new religion.” Nigel found himself kicking off his boots, giggling, flopping down next to the front man atop of the bed. “Now that, Simon, _that’s_ a song title right there.”

“… Which one?”

“Which what?”

“You babbling about your uh, whatsit, new religion, or those eyes. Eyes like an angel.”

Surely he was blushing, Nigel stammered: “Both? The _angel_ one, for now.”

“You’re right! Good golly, you’re right!” Simon sprang straight back up, skipping straight to his abandoned suitcase.

Nigel chuckled at the sight of him, pawing through his stuff, tossing clothes all around. Tossing boxers into Nigel’s face. “Oi! Gross!” Then socks. “Christ, Simon.”

“Found it! Hurrah!”  
  


He collapsed back onto the bed, on his front this time. He motioned to the bedside table by Nigel, who grabbed the pen from beside the phone in its cradle. He handed it over, fingers brushing. Simon studied the biro a second; Nigel wondered what was so fascinating.

“Here, you do it.” Simon handed his prized lyric book over, the one that no band member was allowed to touch never mind even look in its general direction. Nigel straightened up, eyes wide, lips fumbling over his reply. Simon rolled his eyes, shoving his lyric book into Nigel’s clammy palms who promptly dropped it.

He found himself apologising to the book, awaiting the taunts from Simon over doing so. Treating his lyric book as though it was a strange, sentient life form.

“You sure? Simon, it’s, it’s _your_ thing. I really don’t—”

Which it was, he figured.

“-I want you, too.” That tone was distinct, sweet, Nigel knew not to argue any more.

He flickered to a new page, nodding, hand shaking as he grasped the black biro. He hovered for a moment, before snatching the book and rolling to his side. Nigel did his best to keep it hidden, Simon kept on laughing at his back; demanding to see how Nigel was _defacing his most prized possession._

“Hey! Gimme a minute, alright.”

Nigel was laughing too, kicking out at him the more Simon tried to see. Simon was half on him now too, hands flailing forward, trying to get the pen. Nigel’s chest was shaking with merry laughter now, his sketch getting worse and worse by the second.

“Cut it out, cut it _out!_ ” Nigel bucked Simon off with a hiccup. “Jesus!”

Another couple moments of harsh breathing, Nigel promptly ignored the sparks on his skin from where Simon had touched him. He promptly fought down the feeling, bought about by those sparks.

“Here, I hope you like it.”

Shuffling back around, Nigel held the open lyric book tight to his chest. He peeled it away, ever so cautiously, handing it back to his front man. Simon studied the page a moment in silence, before bringing his gaze up and smiling wide.

“Eyes like an angel. So wide, don’t lie.” He recited, forefinger running over the inky page. “That’s a beautiful angel you drew, Johnny.”

“You know I was in art school… for like a week, right?” He swallowed hard, gaze falling to his crossed legs.

“Yeah, Nick mentioned that. You skipped the bulk of the year to check new records out at _Virgin,_ didn’t you?!”

Nigel grinned, ever so cheeky.

“Well, it’s a very pretty angel. Hope we don’t clip them wings.”

Nigel’s gaze hardened, that was deep.

“Eh? Why? Who’s… who’s the angel, Simon?”

Simon didn’t answer, at least not verbally. His glance was glassy, clouding over as Nigel found himself intently studying him. Smooth sun kissed skin, every pore, a small scar across his forehead that he had never noticed before. How his eyes were really, really blue. More like a topaz, a baby blue crystal, than the sapphire Nigel had deduced from before.

Simon broke their moment, chuckling to himself. “Fly like an angel, so high this time. You send your senses, Johnny, streaming free.”

Would Simon’s angel really clip their wings? Only time would tell.


	21. Fashion, Turn To The Left!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from Bowie’s _Fashion _for what will become obvious reasons.__  
>  _  
>  _This fic wouldn’t be complete without some JoNi moments. Especially some JoNi dressing up moments._  
> _

Saturday consisted of demo tapes being ran about the city. Though the band were sure to note that Simon’s vocals were yet to come and to strengthen, that didn’t stop one man at EMI – _of all places, can you imagine?!_ – wanting to take this further.

Taking a pew beside Colin, he thought, Nigel had missed his surname Thurs—something, a nervous glance sent its way through the glass. It wasn’t every day that those who signed The Beatles showed interest in new bands, especially now that EMI were continuing to rise up above the rest. It wasn’t every day that a guy at EMI, albeit young; adventurous and skittish, gave them a chance.

Simon was right there, having frozen. Microphone hovering before him, own lyric book open and songs spread out everywhere. Sound Of Thunder was on the roster; their backing track was playing and this Colin guy wanted to hear Simon out. No sound was coming out of his mouth.

“Oh shit.” He heard Andy whisper, before turning to face the guitarist. “Trust me, singin’ into a mic at a real recording studio ain’t nothin’ like the shitty ones on that stage.”

“He looks ‘bout ready to bug out.” Roger piped up, eyes on the singer; who surely wasn’t singing.

“I think he is, you know?” The three Taylors agreed, worried glances landing on Simon’s silhouette.

Pressing the button, so he could be heard, “is everything okay in there?”

“Oh, what!” Simon jumped, Nigel inwardly grinned. “Oh yeah, yeah _sure_. Can we, can we play that one again?”

Colin insisted on the vocal warm ups, Andy drafted himself in, in the nick of time. Now Nigel was watching the two of them, the _two_ front men as it seemed; warming up vocals and trying to calm Simon down. Though he couldn’t hear what Andy was saying all too well through the thick glass, that didn’t stop Nigel watching them in awe; as together they began to sing and harmonise. As together, the lyrics began to flow.

Time pressed on, tracks were laid. Simon found his beat with this song, _Planet Earth_ too; tracks were laid.

Nigel surely didn’t miss that hug, being able to read the ‘thank you’ as it rolled off of Simon’s lips, a little pink in the face, in the guitarist’s direction. From embarrassment perhaps, though it was ever so endearing to see Simon a little flustered. From the vocal strain perhaps too, though it was ever so scary to think of the pain that Simon must’ve put himself through, just then. He was also sure to hug Simon after he stepped out of the booth, sweat laden skin brushing up against Nigel’s own.

He had been watching through his own heat, both worried sick and in awe of Simon: that he couldn’t deny.

***  
  


“I’m so glad that we found time for this, Nigel.”

Though it had been a while, the best of friends took to the high streets of Oxford together, window shopping. Neither really had any cash on hand, neither really had any cash at all. However it didn’t stop them dreaming of what lay behind those antique, gold brass doors.

“Ooh Nick, in here!” Nigel pointed to the open door of a small yet fashion forward boutique. A scarlet suit in the shop window, reeling him in.

“Yeah alright Nigel, beats _C &A!_”

“The suit.” Nigel made his ‘grabby hands,’ pouting, whimpering. He’d kill for that scarlet number.

“You, a suit?!” Nick sounded astonished, pink lips quirking up in a mocking smirk.

“I can try, Master Bates!”

There was a snort. “Sure you will. Though I will admit, it’s very you.”

“It’s the most _me_ thing I’ve ever seen. _Oooooooh fashion!_ ” Nigel rattled off, voice small, so Nick couldn’t hear. Nick didn’t need to hear.

Together he and Nick strolled in, acting as though they had the dosh in pocket; browsing endless rows of high end suits, shirts and ties. Nick was particularly drawn to these satin two pieces, Nigel noted with a grin.

“Ugh,” Nick sighed, fingertips running over the lapels of this dusty blue number. “Some day, Nigel, some day.”

Smiling, though he knew it hurt them both; “some day, Nick, some day.”

Nigel found himself drawn more to the leather end of the store, fingertips running hot over the luxe material, costing a good three hundred pounds over his current weekly wage. He found himself groaning, wanting to rub his face in the crotch of the leather trousers that caught his eye; not caring as to what the world would think.

“May I help you, sir?”

“Sir?” Nigel found himself flushing, turning around to face the store clerk. He was young, decked out in one of those gorgeous satin suits. _Very Bryan Ferry._ “Dear God, you’re _gorgeous,_ wait wot?!”


	22. Standing In The Dark, Oh I Was Waiting For Man To Come

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from Spandau Ballet’s debut single: _To Cut A Long Story Short. _Yeah I know, it’s a tad too early here but I made it fit!__
> 
> The day I queued this here, this single turned forty! 
> 
> _  
> _Some unexpected (but somewhat logical) guests, here too!_  
> _

The man before him, perhaps only a couple of years older than Nigel, found himself smiling. Nigel’s skin was ruby red over his words, he was the same colour as that suit he’d admired beside Nick up front. Scarlet.

“Christ, I’m sorry… I, I didn’t mean, you know…”

Thankfully, he stopped Nigel’s rambling. His laugh was wonderful, there was a warmth blossoming between them. He had long flowing dark blonde hair, powdered makeup and lips a darkened shade of purple. Eyeliner and powdered cheeks, an _elegant_ punk if that was even a thing. Perhaps, in Oxford Street of all places, it was.

“Lord, a Brummie? I can _hear_ you lot a mile away!”

“Be thankful you ain’t hearin’ our guitarist. He’s a Geordie.”

“Fuck!”

“Yeah… you won’t understand a word he says!”

They struck up conversation, casually browsing. Though Nigel kept an ear out, he was sure Nick had totted off to the dressing rooms, an _Anthony Price_ number in hand. They struck up conversation, Nigel blushing over the comments to his own rugged style and faint makeup. They struck up conversation, somehow Nigel had been offered to join him and some friends down at a swanky club. The Blitz Kids, as it were.

He would be going, he needed to check out the competitive scene.

“Meet me back here after my shift, okay Nigel?”

“Sure… will I even be able to get in lookin’ like this?” Gesturing to his grey button down shirt, the one with the mustard and maroon stripes. A favourite.

He hummed, “wait.” He quickly scoured the ground floor of the boutique, before returning with the same scarlet blazer jacket Nigel had been eyeing on his way in. “Here.”

Slipping off his tattered faux leather jacket, Nigel couldn’t hide his glee at the fabric that replaced it.

“You look _incredible,_ Nigel. Very chic.”

Giggling, more than a little flustered, “thank you! I’m sorry I, I didn’t catch your name.”

The store assistant smiled, full of gleaming white teeth; highlighted by the dark lipstick he wore. “It’s James.”

“Ah!” _Thank fuck it’s not John._ “Nice to meet ya.”

Together, he and James crowded the mirror; the scarlet satin glistening majestically under the lights. - _Ha! Me, majestic?!_ \- Nigel hummed, even finding himself doing a little twirl as James laughed, really wishing he could own a little piece of luxury such as this suit. – _The suit’s working wonders!_

“Very Bryan Ferry.”

“It is, actually it’s tailored by his favourite: _Anthony Price._ ”

“Oh, trust me James, I know!”

“Big fan?”

Nigel could only chuckle, nodding his head. “What if I rolled up the sleeves?” James appeared offended, jaw slack. “Okay then, no rollin’ of sleeves… Can I try the trousers too, real quick?”

Smiling, the handsome store clerk round up the rest of the gear; letting Nigel join Nick (and about three four hundred pound satin suits) in the back.

“I’ll be in the front, be sure to show me when you’re ready Nigel.” James lay a hand on his shoulder, Nigel let out a short breath; smiling stupidly.

“Actually erm, could you… you know, maybe…” his gaze dropped to the expensive material he was holding, knowing he won’t be getting any chances to own something so luxurious any time soon.

“ _Help_ you dress?”

He nodded, blushing bright.

“Of course.”

  
***  
  


The club scene was rife. The parties, the fashion, the music and the culture was crazy different to that up north. Though Nigel had borrowed a silken suit jacket from his new friend, he still felt that he was standing out. After bullshitting his excuse to Simon about heading out for the night alone, the front man wasn’t buying shit. Simon was quick to tag along. Both dressed in their own ‘northern’ new romantic gear.

Simon wasn’t much for makeup, though the enhanced lashes and lightly lined eyes really bought out his baby blue irises. They were gleaming, sparkling. They both were wearing newly adopted leather trousers, red scarves wrapped around their waists. They had been sharing clothing too, though tonight Nigel had on his favourite woman’s shirt with the white bow around the neck. Roberta wouldn’t be getting that back in a hurry, even though Jean had worked miracles getting the cocktail stains out of it! Simon was dressed in some over exaggerated white ruffled number that Nick had picked up, hair teased and tousled.

Nigel was sure that the front man had never looked so ravishing. He shyly palmed his growing hard on, adjusting himself.

Passing the velvet rope, Nigel held his breath as into the thick of the London club scene they went. The club was packed, synths blaring and neon coating the rutting bodies. The sweaty bodies. Men rutting on men, women snuggling with women. Tossers and poofters alike, Nigel swallowed down his nerves.

“Hey George! I’d like you to meet some friends of mine.”

_Friends Of Mine. That sounds promising._

James was quick to sling an arm around Simon’s neck, who held out a hand. 

“Simon, George Michael, fellow Blitz Kid.”

“Ah yeah!” The two blondes shook hands. “I haven’t been to a ritzy _sleazy_ joint like this in yonks! I’ve been in Brum a couple years.”

“Really Simon? Don’t you miss the London scene?” George asked, cross earring dangling from his ear, dirty blonde spikes catching the light.

“I ‘ope you bloody don’t!” Nigel cackled.

“Hmmm,” Simon sent a glance Nigel’s way, momentarily clasping his shoulder. “Not really no, I’ve found a wonderful place up North. Band too. I’m very happy at the Runner.”

“The Run?”  
  


“Runner. _Rum Runner_.” Nigel piped up. “Remember that name.”

“What, is it your band name?”

“Nah but _that_ actually would stick, Johnny! Unlike what you chose!”

Joining the squad, Nigel and Simon took a pew at the bar.

“While we’re at it, Wham!” George slammed his fist on the table, Simon jumped, laughing. “Remember that name.”

A cheeky wink, Nigel flushed into his glass.

He caught wind of conversation. This really was the scene that _Ultravox_ had began at. Well, Midge Ure anyways. And Steve Strange of _Visage,_ what an icon. Some other George, ‘Boy’ something something with his band too. There was also talk (Nigel wasn’t too sure, busy staring at his hot new friend with even more makeup on than before) of another house band here, who were set to be signed any day now.

Baffled, “let’s see about that then, Johnny!”

“Johnny?” George quipped, voicing his friend James’ confusion too. “Thought your name was Ni—”

“— No time for that!” The bassist steamrolled over him, catching sight of the band taking the stage. “Who are these geezers?”

The club dropped to a new low, dance floor packed as the drums kicked in, bass pulsing.

“ _I don’t need this pressure ooo-hoooon!_ ” Simon was sniggering, whispering through his words. He wasn’t having it, much preferring the sound up North. “Christ, what is this cack?!”

“This cack?” George sniggered, “tipped to be signed any day now. The next big thing. Romantics, as it were.”

“Ha sure! What’s their band name?” Nigel asked his glass, more than George or his other mate Andrew (having no clue where he came from) directly.

“Spandau Ballet.”

“Spa- what?!”

With a giggle, “ _exactly_.” George stated.

“Hey!” Nigel pointed, a little shaky; a little drunkenly. “They ‘ave them… the dancers! Like we do! Tik and Tok!”

“Hell yeah,” James focused his heavily lined gaze on Nigel; who was surely flushing profusely. “The something…. Street dance. W-something.”

“I always forget the name.”

“They have a sax player too, _really?!_ ” Simon sniggered.

“Best part of the sound Simon, if you ask me.”

The night rolled on, Nigel actually found himself tapping along. To cut a long story short, these guys were no match for them. He was sure of it! Though Nigel really did wonder about that Tony guy upfront, stumbling out of the club a little tipsy and clutching tight to Simon’s shoulder. Damn could that guy sing. Damn could that Martin slap his bass.

To cut a long story short, they’d be no match for he and Simon. Questions questions, gave him the answers.


	23. Prince Charming, Ridicule Is Nothing To Be Scared Of

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from Adam Ant’s _Prince Charming, _a real favourite of mine, of his!__

Nigel and Simon stumbled out of there a little after eleven, Simon was meant to be driving them home that next day… whoops.

“And then… w-when you… when they made _you_ go up on stah- _hage_ , Si… you were so shite!”

Nigel was clinging to Simon’s arm, inebriation hitting him harder than the singer.

Simon burped. “Woah, ‘scuse me!” Nigel could only giggle, headed for the tube. “It’s not my fault… I was _scared!_ ”

“Bahaha, scared!”

“Shut up. You bugger!” Simon whined, train doors opening. “Get in there!” He practically shoved Nigel inside by the butt.

“La, la, la, late baaaarrhahhhhh.”

“Shut the _fuck_ up! Bloody cockneys!”

Simon met the man from the platform with a wonderful finger, jerking it up so wonderfully.

“Poofters, look at ya’s!”

“Oi! _Wanker!_ ” Nigel coughed back out, it really was the ‘threat’ of the decade.

“Crikey! Did London go to pot after… ‘fter _I…_ erm, after I…”

“You know, left?”

Pointing, “ _that’s_ the one! You good egg.” Simon sniggered in his neck. “It’s dead!”

Laughing, “‘course it did!”

Slumping their way through the cabin, thankfully this one was pretty deserted at this hour, they took a seat. They were illuminated by the yellow glow, black fabric contrasting well with the yellow and grey seats. Nigel was quick to rest his heavy head on Simon’s strong shoulder. He shivered.

“Christ, you must be fuckin’… _cold_ after givin’ whatshisname his suit jacket back?”

Nigel nodded, eyes falling closed.

“Here.” Simon momentarily bucked him off, though Nigel whined at the loss of contact. Then they were both drunkenly laughing, the front man was struggling to remove his jacket. “Oh, you plonker!” Simon told himself, finally shucking out of his sleeve.

Then, ever the gentleman; Simon draped his own leather jacket around his and Nigel’s fronts, who sighed softly.

“Bet-ter?!”

“Yeah, Simon!”

Back to resting on Simon’s shoulder, he felt a strong urge to press his ruby tinted lips into that neck. He leant in closer, nose brushing the hairs on the back of Simon’s neck; nose brushing his cheek. At that moment his front man turned, eyes a little glassy. Nigel’s lips were parted, ready, he was almost brave enough to make contact.

Though he didn’t, he didn’t know how he would explain that in the morning. At least he wasn’t wasted enough to erect that boundary.

Shyer than before, alcohol flooding from his system, Nigel posed a very important question. “What stop are we… you know?”

There was a muted ‘bollocks!’, Nigel found himself hissing through his cruddy laughter in Simon’s neck. They were surely getting weird looks too, dressed not quite punk, not quite new wave.

“It’s called _romantic,_ you git!” Simon singled out this older fellow, a few seats before them. The bloke grunted, stuffing his face back into the newspaper.

“Fuckin’ _tosser!_ ” Another bloke spat.

“That’s the word, ya knob!” Nigel hollered. “That’s the very, very wo-ord!”

They were strange blurring of the two. They were art, always _art_.

***

Laying awake beside that sleeping body had only wreaked havoc on Nigel’s wandering mind. On his body, which had been stirring, far too awake to join that of the boy— no, no, the _man_ beside him. So effortlessly splayed out, on his side, hands resting by his head. Nigel had been cooped up in a small ball of sorts, desperate to cover his lanky frame and arising problem best he could.

Fumbling for his glasses, he shoved them on without a clue of the time. The room was near pitch black, only the faint white light of an outside street lamp illuminated the room. With a sigh, he swung his legs over the side; dropping to his feet. Both were nude save for boxers and somewhat white Y-fronts.

Nigel couldn’t stand the heat even as he shivered, no longer having any blankets to hide behind. There was a stir, a swish of the fabric from behind him. He paused, breath stuttering, turning around to decide that the man was still resting softly. A small snore dropping. Nigel span back around, feeling about the walls; hunting for the en-suite.

Finding the knob, it creaked as he twisted it. He cursed softly, mentally kicking at the door for making a sound. With a short breath he closed it, hissed as the bright white light came on and he was face to face with his blurry self in the large mirror.

Nigel’s skin was flush, eyes glassy, skin covered in goosebumps. Running both hands up his sides did nothing, he only shivered harder. Running both hands down his chest did nothing, he only panted harsher. Running one hand down, down, down, he palmed himself with a choked off groan, just daring to slip inside the flimsy material.

He lurched forward, grabbing ahold of the sink. Sending a glance to his right, Nigel shuffled to the toilet and opened the lid. Lifted the seat. Clutching tight to the wall before him, he sent a hand plummeting down his front, fingertips skirting lightly over his smooth chest and hip bones. Down further, inching closer, a fire pooling in his belly and juices painting the white cotton. He groaned, the sound deep from the back of his throat, hands resting atop of the bump in the fabric, alarm filling him.

He couldn’t do this, no matter what time of the day or night it was. There was another man nearby, his own Catholic guilt was settling in deep. There was another man, moral compass, another man, moral compass…

Another man.


	24. Two Eyes Staring Cold And Silent

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from Visage’s _Fade To Grey. ___  
>  _  
>  _This’ll actually shock you all. It better, I’ve been waiting over a month to share this!_  
> _

He hissed as his middle finger crept beneath the waistband, a small and breathless moan dropping free as another digit joined in the fun. Another shaky breath and his whole right hand was inside his underwear, just daring him to bare all; teasing him to do so. Laughing when he couldn’t.

A final breath and he yanked his underwear down, not too far, the fabric resting around both skinny thighs. Nigel chanced a glance, there was a small wet patch there, a trickle of fluid now coating his middle and forefinger.

He shuddered as he rubbed the fluid back about himself, wincing as he massaged the engorged head.

He wasn’t much good at this, knowing he couldn’t draw out the moment much more. His hands began to trail up and down, up and down, breathing becoming ragged and knots forming in his chest. He gulped back a groan, fingers picking up speed. So far he hadn’t dared let his other hand in to play, though his balls were screaming to be tugged, his member straining painfully in his light grip.

He didn’t know what he wanted, mind hazy and eyes cloudy. Head tipping back, eyes falling closed. He can’t see… he can’t see…

Nigel threw his head back up with a yelp, breath stuttering and now he was fighting for it. Panting harshly, he was blissfully made aware of the hands on him, atop his own right; artfully stroking him. He was bucking into that hand, his one grip on himself faltering, he was bucking and thrusting, whining and crying out: overcome with embarrassment and shame. Nigel was close to tears, another hand softly massaging his balls; running through the wiry hair and giving him a light tug.

Another tug and he’d had it, thrusts growing erratic and the hands on him pumping him faster than light; Nigel shuddered as his body convulsed. Singing his own score of blue and silver; he was painting hot, white streams down those long fingers, his own thighs and the tile floor. Only now had he realised, he’d missed the toilet bowl by a mile.

His knees could’ve given way, those hands hauled him back to standing. Nigel was panting harshly, unable to tuck himself back in. The hand let his flaccid self go, he lunged forward for the side of the sink; moaning as the aftershocks were still knocking him off course. The hand was on him, cleaning him up, cleaning _themselves_ up. His underwear was tugged down fully, he hopped out of them; eyes unable to leave the mess he’d made on the tile beneath his feet.

Nigel couldn’t look. He couldn’t speak. He could barely think about what had just happened.

Spinning around, he caught sight of the open door. Stumbling out, he made his way through it; pulse finally beginning to settle. He span around, caught in those bright blue headlights, unable to hold their gaze. His eyes dropped, only now realising he was fully naked. Naked and on show.

Those hands had touched him, those hands had _helped_ him.

Nigel wanted to say ‘thank you’ but that would’ve been foolish. Forcing his gaze up, he managed a single breath before the bathroom door was slammed shut in his face. Lock clicking.  
  


***  
  


The days passed, band rehearsals got him through it though he found himself avoiding a certain someone. Nigel’s brain was fried. He had never been full blown drunk before and wasn’t even sure if his night in Central London even counted as that. All that he knew was, now he was being tormented by his thoughts. By his memories, carelessly being etched into his head. Though Nigel was sure, skin alight with feeling, that he remembered every moment the following early morning. From being touched the way he had long since realised; he wanted to be touched.

That didn’t stop him from having a fruitless hand on himself, desperately stroking away; head falling back into the pillows, one name rolling hot off of his lips. Then again at the Runner, almost being caught after sneaking away early from a rehearsal.

The man was driving him crazy, newfound love for the tambourine shining. He would shimmy and prance about, Nigel was completely lost in a tizzy. Cock screaming, head a mess.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep, this fic is officially explicit now! For those keeping a track record, this is the first canon sexual moment in the whole series. There will be plenty more moments to come in this fic, do be warned for more dubious consent.


	25. Waiting For The Sound Of Thunder

Clutching tight to his favourite stuffed rabbit, white fur fading to grey, the baby blue ‘Nigel’ stitching across the stomach half missing; he couldn’t help but she’d a tear.

Curled up into a small ball, rocking on the bed, mumbling incoherence. It had taken him multiple days to even begin to understand the situation at the Holiday Inn. Those hands, his own thoughts running wild. He had never acted so out of order, silently begging for help. Help to _finish,_ that means.

He had never been touched that way by another boy, not even Nick. He and Nick had never made it that far, kissing was one thing, cuddling was another. Nigel couldn’t ask for any more of a best friend. Though Nick, Nigel was certain, could never find out about this. Nigel couldn’t speak about it. He was petrified of what Nick may think. Of what any of the band may think. Not only was their reputation on the line, even if they only had a name for themselves down on Broad Street. Their future appeal, enough faggot rumours were being spread as it was.

He couldn’t mess this up, for himself or for the band. The Catholic good boy fighting to breech the surface couldn’t let him, was sinking ever deeper and deeper to the abyss. They had missed out on enough opportunities thanks to his Omega status, Nigel still couldn’t believe they had been given the shot to lay down some tracks in the first place. He couldn’t bear to mess up anything more now.

Thoughts of Simon had long since filled his mind. Hands were beginning to wander.

Placing his rabbit down, Nigel snuck under the maroon covers. It was long past midnight now, the faint buttery glow of the outside street lamp softly illuminated his teeny bedroom. His supposed safe haven.

The thoughts of Simon were growing stronger. His hands, his lips, his nude chest. How close to the other boy he had physically been, repeatedly, how ever so close they had become.

Nigel’s life had literally been in Simon’s hands, pulsing beyond the bassist’s own control.

And now, sneaking a finger inside, he was desperate to keep hard. Thoughts of Simon, ever so distorted, were driving him into delusion. Those magazines stashed away under the bed, those videos he had found. The girls at his old school, the boys at the Polytechnic… useless. Simon, Simon was all he could cling too.

He had never had another boy’s hands on him there before. A solitary digit running all over now, he was losing it; was proving futile. Nigel desperately stroked, whimpered, ignoring every Cathaholic call, every warning that Jesus was watching.

It was painful, his heart was aching more than his once leaking self. Eyes were on him, his parents in the very next room.

Eyes were always on him, he’s really no angel.

He got nowhere, the limpest dick in the lot.

He was close to crying, to screeching for the rooftops as if Simon could hear. Could come running to the rescue, to _save_ him. From what? He didn’t quite know.

Forcing himself into a slumber, Nigel slammed his cheek into the pillows, desperate to stifle his tears of agony.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the eagle eyed readers, this little white rabbit is the toy John’s baby later picks up along with Leonard. After 85, where he has bought a whole load of his baby clothes, blankets and toys to New York!


	26. Take Your Silver Spoon, Dig Your Grave

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s Nigel’s 20th and last birthday... Free bass.
> 
> Chapter title taken from Fleetwood Mac’s _Gold Dust Woman. ___

For once in his (admittedly short) life, he didn’t feel like death. He slept in, threw himself out of bed with a spring in his step. Opened his one birthday present, _T-Rex_ LP raging through the house, gnawed away at his homemade birthday cake and he was out there; faster than light.

It was a Friday night, his parents knew they wouldn’t be seeing him till the following morning. The birthday boy managed to swing the night off work too, he could be waited on tonight. Could be waited on after their rehearsal. After the band’s ‘happy birthday dear _Johnny’_ and after opening his new _Ultravox_ record from Nick; after gawking over Simon and his wonderful, magnificent and stupidly stupid face…

All of that was a blur now. A blur, a disorientation unlike anything he had ever known. He was flying, soaring, raging on the newfound high, there’s no way he’s coming down. Free bass.

Wait. Backup, rewind.

Slipping into the neon haze, drugs ablaze, bodies slowly rutting against each other; Nigel was caught. He found himself immersed in the heat, another glass in hand. He’d never been much of a drinker, though he’s twenty years old now. He’ll slam his fist on the bar for another later, nobody can refuse him. The floor was alive with pasty face drunks, grinding softly to the roar of the _Sex Pistols._ A sure-fire favourite.

He was approached, the small figure stark, standing proud against the inky black haze that seemed to fall upon them. The figure was standing in the dark, proud, holding out a small but welcoming hand for Nigel to take. Nigel could barely see him, those eyes were wide and jaw slack. A newfound relaxation, a newfound giddiness; there was something about the figure that had him hurling his way out of the smokey heat of the crowd. Hand in hand, he was being lead outside; thrust straight into the dead of night.

Nigel was more than a little buzzed now. Hanging off of the figure, clutching tight to the frills around his collar; a face full of his leopard trousers. Together they stumbled, giggled, drinks toppling, voices slurring.

The guitars were shredding, drowning out any and all thoughts that filled his heavy head. He blinked, he nodded, Nigel finding himself leading the figure down the street. He tripped over some cobblestones, laughing tirelessly, practically throwing himself inside. A van. A mystical, all alluring white van.

The figure was at his back, eyes blown wide and jolting slightly. They were speaking to him, faster than usual, they were sweating. Nigel shrugged, that was normal. The heat from inside was stifling. Here, in this secret place, face to face with his new love, he felt anything but the chill.

He didn’t go first, he was welcomed into the circle. Head too foggy to land on the figure he came in with, he knew he was surrounded and that they were moving. His head was spinning, his nose twitching, tongue dropping open in anticipation. He leant down, watching those around him, guide him, provoke him. Offering what he’d never known to want so badly, to crave, right on that shiny silver platter.

He dove in nose first, shivering and jittering as he took it all up like a man. Swallowed down drink after drink, bottles smashing and the place was shaking. Turning and turning, he was headed out the door. He was headed back inside for more, little lumps filling his pocket: he could’ve cut himself with that straw. And bet he’ll have this feeling again, he can’t laugh all the time.

  
***  
  


Lights shone, drinks poured, he’s blinder than blind under those pulsing lights. He’s grown wild under them, feral, downing shot after shot. On the highway to sloshed, taking another hit, the figure was back by his side. They’re guilty, just the same.

Sometimes he’ll need it badly, he’s sure, though can’t be sure if he’ll be back again.

He found himself screaming, another man coming into view. They raced a shot, he won. He never wins, he never would win. His veins are spiked, running hot, the room is back to spinning; he’s surely spinning too. He’s raging on the feeling, he’ll take another hit.

Scrambling too and from the table, the dance floor burning beneath his feet. His skin is alive with feeling, fires pooling, tongue ablaze. Up and down, back and forth, there’s no rain to hold back.

Lights shone, drinks poured, drugs huffed: he’s not the same anymore. It’s only a matter of time before his world fades to black. Or white.


	27. No More Heroes Anymore

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from The Stranglers _No More Heroes. ___
> 
> This is also one of my most favourite chapters of the whole story.

“Ah, Christ! My _head_.” He whispered, the sound torn deep from within his dry throat. Clearing it, he shook the soaked bangs from his face; slumping up to rest against the wall. The club, his eyes were too glassy to read his watch as he flicked his wrist. He shouldn’t be here at this hour, nobody should.

_Why is he still here?_

“Fuckin’ _hell_.” He screeched, hands now planted to his throbbing temples. There was a strange whiff about him, he glanced down with a sigh. “Holy shit!” His shirt was covered in, what he only assumed was, his own barf; he found himself dizzy on the thought.

“Morning.”

“You wot?” He uttered, unable to find the silhouette before him.

“I said _morning_.”

His head flew up rapid; like a double take. He blinked, rapid, his glasses weren’t in sight.

“That’s one hell of a hangover. Hope you’re happy now, John.”

Suddenly, in that ever so cliché way; those hands were at his sides. Cupping his face, they slid his frames back on. He winced, the left one was cracked.

“J.. _John?_ ”

“Yeah.” The voice before him was taught, they’d risen back to standing. “You said you’d smash your glass if I called you Ni—” they cut themselves off with a wince. He couldn’t see why. “Your name is _John_ now, it’s the only way to get them girls. That’s what ya said last night.”

Though it hurt, though his stomach was churning and head pounding; he struggling to all fours. And there he was, crawling his way around the toilet stall, clawing desperately to the door in the hopes that it would keep him upright. A mess on the floor, he deftly avoided it, before crashing into those legs beside the sinks.

Now he could see. Now he could feel the bile rising up in his throat.

He shot back up to standing, scrambling for the nearest stall.

Flushing it, he was panting heavily; skin akin with sweat, tears forming in his eyes. With a screech, knowing it would do him no good, he kicked the toilet bowl once. Twice. Three times before throwing himself back out into the real world, head throbbing harsher than before.

“I… oh my god, did I?” He broke off, voice trembling, swaying still on his feet.

He crowded the mirror, still keeping his distance from the man before him. The man before him, with a swollen left eye, with cuts on his forehead.

Nigel could’ve screamed.

He found himself trying to reach forward, hands pitifully trembling.

“Don’t!” They screeched, shucking away from his grip. “Don’t touch me, John.”

He shrunk back. That wasn’t his name. Was it?

“What fuckin’… sick bastard does that? To you, of all lads, ‘eh?” He wondered aloud, arms flailing as he felt his body pelted by another nausea wave.

Nigel rushed to hold it in.

There was a scoff, he pretended he didn’t hear it.

“I ‘spose I _deserve_ it, huh?” They uttered, back to tending to the cut slicing his forehead.

“Deserve it? For… for what?”

“Oh I dunno, _John_.” He spat, voice cold. “Tryin’ to save you from passing out into your own vomit?!”

“What?”

“Trying to be sure you get that bollocks out of your system before Jean sees you? Christ, what were you and Andy thinking?!”

He shook his head: bad move.

“John!” They demanded, clutching tight to the sink.

This time, Nigel took that step.

“Si—” he gulped, trying again. He could only mouth ‘Simon.’ It was quite the arduous task.

“I just wanted you _safe_ … what the bloody fuck did you do, last night?”

Nigel remained silent.

“Who offered it you?”

Nigel shrugged.

“You have no clue; do you?”

He shook his head, gaze falling to his feet.

“The first time you got drunk and _stoned_ huh? Huh?!”

He was right beside Simon, only now he could see that his front man was trembling; eyes bleary, tears having clearly stained his puffy cheeks. He hovered, he dared to hover, hand resting painfully right above Simon’s jittering shoulder.

Boundaries were crossed, Nigel supposed he deserved that slap.

“Oi, what was that—”

Nigel cut himself off at the fury in Simon’s eyes. Then the guilt that crowded his irises, unable to believe that he had just struck him.

“Christ, I… I just, John, I…” Simon sputtered, eyes falling to the floor. Embarrassed, ashamed, unlike anything Nigel had seen from the front man before. He straightened up immediately as Simon’s lips again parted, knowing that whatever the front man had to say: would leave a stain on his soul.

“Simon!” He tried again: _what ever happened to the heros?_

“Get away from me. _Stay_ the fuck away from me.” Simon gulped, forcing his gaze up. The fire was rife on his sweaty skin, dried blood having trickled down the side of his forehead, Nigel gagged. “I need… I need time. To get last night outta my head, okay?”

Nigel just stood there, ears ringing.

“Don’t come lookin’ for Nick either. He… he, he don’t wanna see you. _John_.” That name was added, an after thought.

And with that, Simon pushed himself away. Headed for the door, body hunched and breath hitching. Though when he got there, hand trembling before the door knob he turned, Nigel gasped; those red rimmed eyes stern on his own.

He didn’t even know when he had started crying.

“You’re not the boy, man. You’re not the _man_ I thought you were. Suppose doin’ all that crack makes you a man now, right?”

“Simon, please!” He cried, lips numb from biting them to keep quiet.

“You know Ni- _John_ , if that’s who being ‘John’ is, drugs and all, I don’t think I…” Nigel’s lips again fell open, Simon didn’t give him chance to speak. “I wouldn’t wanna ruddy know ‘im. Hope you’re _happy,_ John. Happy Birthday.”

“Happy Birthday? That was yesterday.”

“I said ‘Happy Birthday Nigel’ yesterday, John probably would’ve wanted my head in a blender if I said that now. So Happy Birthday.” There was no ‘Nigel’ or ‘John.’

The door opened, slammed. Nigel didn’t follow.

Then he did, Simon was nowhere to be seen.


	28. They Got Him On Milk And Alcohol

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from Dr Feelgood’s _Milk And Alcohol. ___

Never had he found knocking on doors so painful, he wasn’t even shy anymore. He’d robbed a couple bottles of _Budweiser_ on his way out of the Runner, on the highway straight through tipsy to full blown wasted. He really was a lightweight.

With a sigh, he gave up. Knowing the room he was after was round the left side, he found himself slumping over. He picked up a rock, knowing he had a shitty aim, hoping this would be a good enough hit.

A good three rocks later, a few drunken yells of ‘Rog, open up you prick!’ Nigel was stood before a very ruffled drummer. Roger didn’t invite him in.

“Christ, man; you’ve got to help me.”

“Aright, John.” His voice was smaller than usual, Nigel winced.

“John?” _Blast, not you too._ He was swaying. “Y-yeah… okay, John it is.”

Roger crossed his arms, stepping back slightly.

At that, a slightly bleary voice echoed from down the hallway. Nigel could only smirk.

“Rog, who’s at the— oh, hi Nigel.”

“John.” Roger corrected her, not looking at him.

_Nigel? Christ this is messed up._

“Afternoon, Giovanna.” He shot a knowing glance Roger’s way. _So that’s why his quiff’s as mess._

With a sigh, he stepped aside as Nigel hopped over the threshold. They made a beeline for the drummer’s bedroom, leaving Giovanna behind, he all but fell up the stairs.

“Rog, don’t bullshit me, what did I do last night?!” He yelped, flopping onto the drummer’s unmade bed.

Roger was quiet – _shock!_ – Nigel whined in frustration.

“Rog! C’mon, what happened to Nick; to Simon and why does he have a huge cut on his head?!” He blurted, frustrated thoughts a jumble.

Roger only eyed him, choosing to perch before Nigel, resting up against the windowsill. He was backed by the sunlight, looking like an angel.

_Maybe that’s who Simon meant, the other night with his song. Would the angel clip his wings? Or will we?_

“John,” that sounded super weird. He could tell Roger was tripping over his tongue. “Look, I… I don’t know, okay? All that I saw was you and Andy drunk, then you hittin’ on Simon and an argument broke out with Nick. I don’t know.”

“I… fuck, I didn’t, you know… _hit_ Nick, did I?”

Roger just shrugged.

“Bollocks!” Nigel shot back up to standing, still swaying, craving another bottle. “I’m off to his place, thanks for nothin’ man. Have fun _in_ Gio.”

He stumbled out of there, curtsying before Roger’s mother before tossing two fingers up at the drummer’s now shut bedroom door.

***  
  


“Hey! Sylvie… please is, is Nick here?”

He also didn’t imagine he’d be stood outside Nick’s bloody door, trying to pick a fight with his mother.

Along the way, he’d picked up that other _Budweiser_ bottle he’d chucked into the _other_ Jean Taylor’s plants, back in Castle Bromwich, before he’d entered the humble abode.

“Screw it, he’s wasted. Let him in.” Nigel heard somebody say, he didn’t care to decipher who. “Doesn’t need to make an ass of himself on the street anymore.”

Reluctantly, Sylvia stepped aside, Nigel again hopped over the threshold. This time he wasn’t taken to any bedroom, he followed Nick, who’s shoulders were slumped and who too appeared a little irked like Roger had been; into his living room.

What he saw next could’ve killed him.

“Christ, what!” Nigel found himself sputtering. “What are _you_ doin’ here?”

There Simon sat, opposite Nick’s father. Nick, he turned to face his keyboardist, appeared guilty. Nigel wasn’t drunk enough to not clock that. He watched Nick whisper to his father, Roger agreed and left them there.

“Some kinda _crucial three_ this is, ‘eh?” He was surely rocking on his heels, hands shoved deep into his leather pockets. They still reeked of piss and puke from the club, it’s a shame they’re brand new.

Two dark glares were sent his way, Nigel’s head bowed in shame.

“Sit down John, you’re making me dizzy by rocking about over there.” He complied with Simon’s words, tumbling into the empty chair opposite Nick.

“Maybe _you_ could put a shirt on.” Nigel spat in rebuff, the sight already getting too him.

“Wanker.” Simon dressed.

Nick had two arms around Simon, as though he was trying to keep the front man upright. Nigel could tell, he was still feeling bad. He’d have to change course, the highs of last night crashing hard. He needed to be more subtle with his approach, Nick wouldn’t just talk.

“Why are you ‘ere, John?”

Or maybe he would.

“Shit, why are _you_ callin’ me that? You, Nick, of all people!”

Nick swallowed audibly, he shifted so his hands weren’t around Simon’s bare arms anymore. “You said so, last night.”

“Yeah,” Simon scoffed, “Nigel’s _dead_ and all that.”

He swallowed. “Fuck, I’m sorry okay. Y’know I’m sorry, for whatever… alright? C’mon Simon, please.” He pounced, coming to drop before Simon cross legged on the carpet. The singer’s eyes didn’t meet his. “You take my apology, yeah?”

Simon waved him off.

“Shit, why? What did I do to you? Just freakin’ _explain!_ ”

“Jo- _Nigel_ ,” he visibly relaxed as Nick corrected himself, “just forget it okay. We need time, Charley need’s time.”

“Time for what?” He spat, exasperated. “What did I do?!”

“Oh for fuckssake!” Simon boomed, scaring him in this drunken state. “We can’t rewind, we’ve gone too far.”

Puzzled; “with a cut open head you recite _Buggles_ lyrics?”

“Shut up.” Nigel shut up.

“When you’re wasted you recite _Buzzcocks_ lyrics: _ever fallen in love with someone, ever fallen in—_ ”

“—Simon!” Nick lightly slapped his arm, Simon’s voice dulled to nothing.

They were now face to face, rage flushing over Simon’s skin. Confusion writ across Nigel’s lips; heavy head pounding, he found himself rising onto all fours. Closing the gap, Simon’s breath hitting his cheeks, he closed the gap. He closed the gap.

“Oh, fuck off.”

“Yeah well.” Simon began, voice gravely. “ _Don’t say a prayer for me now.”_


	29. John, We’re Only Dancing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from the Bowie song of the same name.

Simon slammed his lips straight into Nigel’s. The kiss was dirty, tasting of defeat and deceit; a first kiss like no other. They stumbled, Simon was quick to pull back before Nigel had the chance to register what he was doing. He was panting, shaking, lips aflame.

“You happy now? Sod off.” Simon wasn’t mad, he wasn’t sad. But his bottom lip was trembling, Nigel didn’t know why.

“No, fuckin’ hell, don’t you get it?” He shot back, desperate.

“Christ, who am I even talking too? You never raise your voice like that, Nigel. You never just make a move like that, whacked out on… whatever, or not. You’re a vulnerable git, be thankful you didn’t get hurt.” Simon spat, voice finding its way.

“But, what?!”

“Nigel,” Nick dared, voice strained. “You ripped Simon from Fiona’s grip, kissed him, had your hands down his leathers and then you were on your knees. In the middle of the club.”

His eyes shot open wide, jaw dropping.

“You… you, John, you kissed me right then and there, demanded I _take_ you.”

“I… I what?”

_You violated him._

“John, I…”

_You violated his trust._

Simon’s voice was taught, sounding a million miles away. “John, I need you to… blimey, just _listen_ to me.” He paused, rolling the words about in his mouth before turning to Nick.

“You sure, Charley?” One nod, Nick upped. “Alright then, you know where I’ll be should you need me.” The keyboardist headed out of his own living room.

“John, just shut the fuck up and let me get through this, alright. Me head kills.”

He nodded.

“I _know,_ John.”

There was a pregnant pause, Simon rolling words about in his mouth and Nigel momentarily forgetting how to breathe.

“I know you want me.” Those words were strained, they would be a struggle for anyone to hear. “ _Johnny,_ I know you love me… I’d be a moron not to notice.”

He kept quiet.  
  


“And no, it’s not just what Ands said or _The Chauffeur_. I feel it too, I knew before last night; knew it before what happened at the Holiday Inn. I just… I can’t…” 

“Did I…” Nigel gulped, drunken head too swirly to piece it all together. “Come onto you… you said no, I—” he raised a shaky fingertip to Simon’s bruised eye.

Simon nodded.

“Bloody hell. Simon, you’ve got to know… know that I, I wasn’t, you know, I wasn’t… meself last night, huh right? I mean, you can understand that can’t you?”

Simon blinked back a tear. He sniffled, gaze landing anywhere but on Nigel’s own pleading face.

“You’ve never gotten physical John… you, bollocks, you don’t have the bollocks to do that! A part of me wants to say I understand, you know, under the influence and all but… Christ John, I’ve never seen nothin’ like it.”

Nigel scrambled beside him on the sofa, still on all fours. Bottom lip trembling, wanting to reach out and touch him. Wanting those lips.

“If that’s who ‘John’ is, a sudden cock-sure fuck, I don’t wanna know him. What happened to Nigel, fallin’ about flat on his face? Blushing behind the fringe when I say a simple ‘hello’?”

He didn’t say a word, how could he?

“Okay, go off and wander. John, I’m guilty just the same.” He sniffled, he sang, Nigel was hooked. He’d never heard those words before. “Not on your own so… _please_.”

That _please_ was barely audible, the tears were coursing down Simon’s cheek now. He’d never felt more guilty, own cries matching that of the front man.

“Simon, I—”

“—Don’t, okay. I think I… God, I think I lo- _love_ you too but… how can I trust you after that? What you were doin’ to yourself?”

“It was one night, I, I swear!”

“One night? We have the rest of our lives to think about, our band, our career. That’s all the music scene is: sex, drugs, rock ‘n’ roll. I don’t want you getting lost in it.”

“All our idols do it. Done it.” He shot back, lamely. _Ashes To Ashes, fun to funky…_

“That an excuse?” Simon just grunted. “Not on your own, so help me, please.”

Nigel retreated, adjusting his glasses. He motioned to the cracked frame, Simon said nothing. “At least now I, I uh, may aswell try them contacts.”

Simon shrugged. “Are we done here or, is there something _I_ should know?”

Nigel swallowed what little pride he had left. Simon had long since crawled even deeper into his side of the sofa, hunching over into a scared little ball. He was clutching a pillow tight, like it was his only defence. In the light, Nigel could finally make out the wounds fully, the dull pain coating his front man’s face.

“Have you…” Nigel began, treading gently on this flaming ground. “Be honest with me ‘ere.” He gulped, unable to keep his gaze on Simon as he said it. “Ever _done_ any… y’know…”

“Drugs?”

His head sprang back up. Nigel nodded, pain writ across his face.

Simon shrugged. “A couple times, yeah. Parties and whatnot… smoked a couple bits. Why?”

“What ‘appened to you on ‘em, do you remember?”

“I know I never did anything alone. Never took what was offered in a freakin’ _van_ outside.” Nigel’s face fell. “I ain’t gotten into brawls either… they don’t do anythin’ for me, I don’t think. Never done cocaine though.”

What Nigel asked next truly shocked him.

“You what? The fuck would I?”

“I dunno… you said ‘bout never doing them _alone_.”

“What, John, no! I’m not snorting cocaine just so I can keep watch on you high… what the hell?!”

Nigel figured, digging himself the deeper hole, he should shut up. They sat in silence a couple minutes, his nose was tingling.

“And now I know, they keep it in the Runner. Fuck Johnny, I don’t know why I’m surprised.” Simon gestured wildly, with a snort. “That shit’s rife in London, you know it’s a damn good reason why I liked the clubs here. Because I… John, John look at me.”

Nigel glanced up, breathing heavily.

“Keep lookin’ at me.”

Nigel obliged, blinking rapidly.

“That’s a damn good reason why I wanted _out_ of singin’ in clubs down there, know what I mean? It’s not safe. I’m not saying I agree with it nor can I condone it. It’s just… that shit is everywhere down south. And now, bloody hell.” His gaze hardened on Nigel’s face, directly addressing him. “Are we really that _stupid?_ Is _anybody_ safe?”

“I… Simon, I dunno.”

Their eyes locked. Simon’s mouth was moving, he didn’t hear a thing.

He found himself leaning down, inebriation taking the reigns. His lips stuttered, fumbled, stumbled into Simon’s hold. His shaky hands caressed those cheeks, Simon kissed Nigel back; chaste and swift, now _that_ was a first kiss he’ll be happy to forget. Tasting the pain on those plump lips, the restraint still in place. He can do better, they both can.

“J-John, hang on, please.” Nigel retreated, nodding. “I think…” Simon looked up, sniffing; working the words about in his mouth. “I think you should go.”

The panic coated his pasty skin. “What? No, no please. Simon c’mon, we’re gettin’ so close—”

“— Just go.” The front man breathed, he wasn’t forceful, he sounded tired.

Though it hurt, Nigel knew he had outstayed his welcome. Slowly, he rose to standing, still swaying a tad. He headed for the open door, not saying bye to Nick or daring to look his best friend in the beady hazel eye. Nigel let himself out and began the short trek back to his place: 34 Simon Road.

_Simon Road? Goddamnit._

Rounding the corner, Nick’s place now was out of sight. He stood before the street sign, reading Nick’s street name over and over; eyes clouding over. He felt the sudden cool tear, then it streamed hot down his pinky cheek.

_Simon Road._

How could he face his parents like this? Had he stopped home before going to Roger’s? Had he stopped there en route to Nick’s? He hadn’t a clue. The only thing he did know now was that he had left one Simon behind, and was now in fear of what would happen as he strolled down this one.

“Don’t say a prayer for me now, huh?” Nigel spat, aiming it at no-one in particular. “Sounds ‘bout right, don’t it Simon?”


	30. You Cry Out In Your Sleep, All My Failings Exposed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from Joy Division’s _Love Will Tear Us Apart. ___

Slipping in, he groaned in frustration as the key got jammed in the lock on the other side. Nigel yanked it, twisting it harshly, before kicking at the door for being such a bitch. In his mind he was racing upstairs, fumbling for a lighter and a change of clothes. Though in reality, he was staring blankly at his father; who in turn was glaring. Again, he didn’t even appear mad, more tired, behind those thick frames.

His father, Jack, nodded. Nigel followed him into the small living room.

Jean rushed to her feet, ready to hug and scold him for being out so late; for not returning. Though by the pained look coating her face, the wrinkle of her nose, she had taken one whiff of the club staining her son and simply returned to seated.

“What are you standing there for, boy? Take a shower.”

Nodding, still pink in the face from his blasted crying; Nigel ran out of there and up the stairs.

  
***  
  


What he didn’t get was a scolding, nor did he get a spank. He figured he could’ve used both, at least a little whack with the ruler. His parents couldn’t hurt a fly, though his wasp’s sting these last forty-eight hours really did need whipping into shape. Nigel could admit that, even if his mother couldn’t out loud.

He listened to their words, wet fringe dropping into his eyes. His gaze was shaky when focusing on his mother, through the cracked left lens, as she told him; voice small. Sylvia had called her, told her that neither of their sons would be returning that night. Sylvia had stated that she didn’t know where Nigel was, when both Nick and Simon had returned to her place that morning. Neither of the boys could give her a simple, straight answer as Sylvia asked repeatedly for Nigel.

Though, Jean had clung tighter to the phone chord, as Sylvia had stated:

“Not Nigel anymore, am I right?” His father peered over, mildly offended.

He found himself stuttering, there was no clear answer.

“What’s wrong with it, son?”

Nigel’s gaze met the bleary one of his mother’s, lost behind her thick cat eye frames. He had no answer, simply furrowing his brows and pouting.

“It’s not…” his father began, choosing his words carefully. “Not rock and roll enough for you, is it?”

_Who’s gonna get laid with a name like that?!_

Nigel nodded, shamefully. The speech was building up in his mind, why he would change his name. Why he was warming up to the idea. Though he couldn’t help but wonder, gnawing into his bottom lip to refrain from speaking his mind, just why his parents were not calling him up on what he did last night. What he took. What was still swirling amock in his system.  
  


He quickly came to the conclusion that they didn’t know. His mother knew him better than anyone, she always had and would continue to. Though this, taking drugs, was a new variable to them all. Even though it was only one time, Jean would never have seen it coming.

Did Nigel own up to taking what he had? No, in his mind there was nothing to admit. It was bound to happen someday, he chalked it up to a little experimentation. Doesn’t mean it’ll happen again now, will it, Nigel?

“No!”

“I’m sorry?” His mother stated, as Nigel shrieked out of the blue.

“Nothin’,” he blinked, wincing as the cracked image of her only grew more distorted. “We done, here?”

He had more tears to stream free, more Simon to cry over.

“No, I don’t think we are son.” His father piped up, disappointment coating his face.

Nothing could’ve prepared Nigel for what came next. Dancing into his father’s fire, about his drinking. He was twenty years old for fuck’s sake, he had to get drunk at some point. Prove himself a man at some point.

“And getting drunk, Nigel, is the way to prove you’re a man now?” His mother’s tone truly shocked him.

“In my day, it was fighting the war.”

“It’s just… I don’t…”

“Nigel.”

His face fell, stood before his father. “No. No it’s not.”

“That’s right, it’s not.”

“But it was my _birthday!_ Who cares what I ‘ad?” He spat back, eyes still on the carpet.

There was a pause. Nothing could’ve prepared him for their reply. The fact that it came from his mother, telepathic as always, scared him more.

“That Simon fellow really seems to care.”

He gulped audibly, the familiar sting behind his eyelids hitting him. _Don’t cry, not now._

“You had us worried sick, Nigel.”

_Don’t cry, not now._

“Let’s not have that happen again. You work there, you need to keep that job.”

“Otherwise,” his father roared, “enough with that band bullshit, you go back to college.”

His mother hastily raised her voice. “You need a career, you need to start a life for yourself, Nigel.”

“You know the deal, boy.” His father finished for her.

He choked out his answer, they had always been so supportive of him and his music. He didn’t need to cost himself that support, break that trust over his wild boy antics now. “One year out to see if I’m gettin’ somewhere…” _fuck off. I know I’m gonna get somewhere._

That was enough, he stormed out of there not needing to get that fight going now. Fumbling for a cigarette at the door, Nigel cast a heavy stare back. Though that didn’t stop the chilling look his mother sent his way engrave itself into his memory.

_Disappointed_ wasn’t a word strong enough.

Slamming the door was unnecessary. Swiping a lighter and a beer bottle was unnecessary. Heading out the front door was expected but rather unnecessary.

He didn’t know where he was going but at the same time, he knew exactly where.


	31. Let The Boys All Sing, And Let The Boys All Shout

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from The Jam’s _Going Underground. ___

“You have to let me up, man, please!”

He’d spent his pocket money for the week on random bus trips all day, that meant he’d done the forty minute (somewhat tipsy) walk there.

“C’mon Andy, please! Just tell ‘im, I wanna talk!”

…

“Fuck it, can I at least use your loo?!”

…

“You knobhead.”

Nigel found himself yelling into the buzzer at Andy’s hesitation. Then pulling away, to kick the apartment building’s double doors. Swearing to himself, he was getting nowhere. Nigel span about on his tattered heel, deciding he may aswell take a piss behind the bus stop before trudging his way back home.

“Oof, God!” He collided with another body, one that reeked of chips and vinegar.

The sudden quake of his stomach reminded him, he really hadn’t eaten today. He’d drank himself stupid, now it was coming up on five PM, he needed food. He didn’t hold his breath on his mother leaving him a pork pie in the oven for whenever he made his gracious return.  
  


“What you doin’ here?” He spat, jumping a mile backwards.

They just looked at him, like he had suddenly dropped about twenty IQ points. “Uh, I _live_ here?” Nigel watched as they pointed upwards, to the grotty wannabe skyscraper before them. “Ain’t the real question, what are _you_ doing here at this hour; John?”

He sputtered over his reply.

“Fuck it, the food’s gonna get cold. Piss off!” They brushed past him, whacking him with the grey bag of chips.

“Simon, wait!” Nigel lurched a hand forward, clutching the front man’s shoulder. He wasn’t bucked off.

_Fuck it,_ Nigel thought. He’d cried enough on his own today, he may aswell cry with someone who could understand what he felt.

“I’m sorry for this, Simon.”

Simon yelped as Nigel’s soggy lips claimed his, almost dropping his takeaway to the concrete. He was desperate, licking his way into Simon’s mouth; hands planting themselves to the front man’s face: in fear that he would run away. Nigel could’ve shrieked as those lips parted, as he was welcomed by a duelling tongue. He fell deeper into the kiss, letting Simon tilt his head to his own liking; running his hands roughly through Nigel’s darkened locks. His hips gave way, grinding into Simon’s jeans.

He pulled away breathless, panting harshly. Simon too was ruffled, baffled by what he had done.

“Get off the porch, people’ll think we’re fags.” Simon spat, turning away from him.

“Can I, y’know, at least sneak some fish? Couple chips?”

The front man rolled his eyes, slapping Nigel round the back of the head. Then, before the bassist had the chance to complain, hands were on him and guiding him inside. Shoving Nigel up to the lift. Then the apartment door. Room 7609.  
  


***  
  


Storming inside his own apartment, Simon shoved Nigel inside before twisting the lock. He was met by a surprised Andy, looking up from his frets, blinking.

“Erm, Simon?” The guitarist questioned the front man, who chucked the bag of chips onto the sofa beside him; strutting round the small kitchen for some plates. “You okay, mate?”

“Fine.” He spat, slamming the cutlery drawer shut. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Nigel sent a worried glance the guitarist’s way, wondering just how much Andy knew.

Simon returned, plates in hand. “Ands, be a dear and dish up. I’ll toss the newspaper out after. John, bathroom’s down the hall.”

“John?” Andy asked, Simon glared at him. “Oh right, _John_.”

Nigel upped, strolling down to the small bathroom at the end of the corridor. He locked himself in, desperate for a breather. The bathroom was small, he was sealed in tight. The sink was practically half in the shower, he thought, lifting the toilet lid to relieve himself. Above the toilet lay a small, grotty round mirror; he was face to face with his flush reflection as he urinated.

His lips were swollen from where he had been bitten, his cheeks were a dusty rouge. Running his tongue over his bottom lip, he found himself wincing then groaning; he really had enjoyed being manhandled for those few precious seconds his lips had joined with Simon’s.

He found himself desperate to recall every moment of that kiss. Every nip of teeth, scrape of tongue; it was unlike anything he had experienced before. He could’ve sworn, flushing the loo, that he could still feel just where Simon had gripped him, goosebumps forming on his skin as the reminder.

He washed his hands, tossed some water onto his face and trembled as he unlocked the door. He trembled harder as he took those cautious steps back into the living room/kitchen area; almost wanting to inspect the bedroom he passed. He wondered if it was Simon’s, whether this place even had two beds or if he and Andy shared one. If he and Andy took it in turns to occupy the sofa.

He forced down a small cry. He wanted to be the one sharing a bed with Simon, willingly or unwillingly. Ironically or un-ironically.

“C’mon, eat up. Don’t let it get cold.” He was ‘welcomed’ back by Simon, half pointing to a third plate.

Nigel could tell by the portion sizes, they had divided up their food so he could eat too. “Oh no, you guys didn’t have too…” To Nigel, that meant something.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. You scrawny tyke, now, _eat_.” Simon commanded, as Nigel shuffled in beside Andy on their worn-in, tacky jade green sofa that had really seen better days.

The three ate in near silence. Only the cracking open of a _Foster’s_ bottle could be heard.

“Yo Nige— _John,_ you want one?”

“I think he’s had enough for today, this weekend, Andrew.” Simon answered for him, both Taylors cocking a head his way. “What?” He shrugged, before tucking back in.

“He’s right.” _Man, that fish is good._ Nigel half spoke, half chewed through his reply. He swallowed audibly. “I’m good.”

Andy simply nodded, passing the bottle over to Simon instead. Nigel couldn’t help but eye it, couldn’t help but smell the faint whiff of beer; as it traveled through the small living space.

They remained silent through dinner, through Andy doing the dishes and then Simon left to take the rubbish out. Nigel sensed that Andy saw this as his opportunity, of course the guitarist would take it.

“The hell are you ‘ere for, man?”

Nigel blinked. “Erm…”

“He said he didn’t wanna see you, then he invites ya ass up? What’s that about?”

“Ands, I…” He burped, pardoning himself. “I dunno. He uh… what are ya lookin’ at?”

“Your lip.”

“My, fuck, yeah my lip. What ‘bout it?”

Andy snorted, raising a brow. “You bite it?”

“Uh yeah, yeah. That I did, yeah.”

“Looks like you half gnawed it away, mate.”

Nigel was ready to reply, though the creaking open of the front door gave him pause.

“N-no, keep talkin’, I’m off to bed.” Simon dismissed them both with a flick of his wrist, hand on the hem of his black Boston shirt. He whistled softly to himself, stripping himself, plodding on down the corridor. Nigel watched, eyes glued, knowing he had to end this and end this now.

“Simon, wait!”

He didn’t wait.

“Oh, for fuckssake!”

Nigel upped, ignoring Andy’s cries of ‘leave him be, you prick. What did you even do?’ He sauntered on down the corridor, suede boots clunking to emphasise every forced step. Nigel didn’t bother knocking, his hand lurched straight for the door handle; twisting it with force.


	32. Take Me Through The Darkness, To The Break Of The Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title taken from ABBA’s _Gimme Gimme Gimme _for very apt reasons...__

“Hey!” Simon spat, turning around. He was naked save for his blue stripy boxers. “What is it you fuckin’ wa— _agh!_ ”

Simon didn’t have chance to finish. Nigel didn’t give him chance, backing the front man into the wall. His pinky lips sealed themselves to Simon’s, swallowing every retaliation, every breath he could muster. Nigel’s hands were shaky though he had never been more sure of himself: running hot, aching fingertips, raking all over Simon’s form.

The kiss was growing deeper, more sloppy, neither boy knowing quite what to do. Nigel stumbled as he pulled back, he inhaled sharply, lips latching onto Simon’s neck. The front man was groaning; he wasn’t bucking him off. Nigel kept at it, hands running down Simon’s torso, listening to his small cries of ‘oh fuck’ and ‘dear God.’

Nigel’s hands shot themselves down, one on Simon’s nude chest to hold him upright; the other sending itself into his boxers, grasping for his prize.

“ _Fuck,_ Johnny, I—” Nigel swallowed that cry, licking wildly into Simon’s mouth. Tongue shooting out into the wet heat.

He could feel Simon responding to him; he was grinding his own hips forward. His hand was clumsy, his lips were battered and bruised but Nigel kept stroking, faster and faster, panting harshly as Simon did the same.

“That okay?”

“Y-yes!” Simon screeched.

Before long Simon was bucking into his hand, own hands fumbling to yank his boxers down; Nigel’s lips back to his neck.

“What should… ngh, what should I do?”

He pulled away slightly, eyes half lidded as he watched Simon tug lightly at his own nipple. He dove in for the left mound, licking over it. Nigel opened his eyes, catching sight of Simon panting roughly, head tipped back. He was mouthing something, something Nigel couldn’t quite be sure off.

“Balls?”

“ _Yes_.” Simon breathed, pointing down. “Rub ‘em… round the back, gently…”

Nigel sent his free hand down, tugging lightly over the sensitive skin.

“Like this?”

“Yes!”

He felt Simon shiver bodily, shiver harshly, before tugging at him with his left hand. His right hand only stroked his length faster, using the precum to swipe back over Simon’s weeping head.

“More?” Nigel posed, taking a breath.

“Fuckin’ _hell… Ugh,_ yes.”

“Where? Show me?”

When Nigel dared to send his tongue back over Simon’s nipple, the singer screamed; bucking wildly into his grip. That was confirmation enough. Seeing stars, he was swearing as Nigel kept on stroking him through this high; kept on licking, teeth scraping over his breast.

“Jo-Johnny, I’m gonna… fuck!”

Nigel revelled in the magnificent sounds, harsh cries and pants; before dropping his gaze. Watching in awe, as finally Simon’s streams began to fizzle out, to spurts.

The front man was a shivering mess, mouth open and breathing ragged. Slowly, Nigel rose to standing, having broken that boundary. He couldn’t quite believe what he had just done as the realisation seemed to settle in. Hard.

Fingers sticky with Simon’s seed, Nigel knew that he could never forget what that felt like.

“Simon, I—”

This time, it was Nigel’s turn to choke on his tongue. Simon had yanked him by the wet hand, tongue dropping out, to ghost over those string worn fingers. Nigel groaned, easing his hand up to Simon’s mouth: letting the front man lick him clean.

“ _Fuck,_ Simon… God…”  
  


Simon’s tongue ran in slow, controlled patterns. Driving Nigel into his own delirium.

“A bassist needs to take _care_ of his hands.” Simon uttered, near breathless.

When he was done, he dropped Nigel’s hand who pulled back on reflex. Simon’s eyes were dark, predatory, though Nigel wasn’t sure he could take much more.

“Can I?” He was straining painfully, though he couldn’t ask Simon for help. His voice was small as he glanced down, fingertips fumbling as he unlatched the button on his jeans and pulled his zip down.

“Go ahead.” Simon sounded distant, Simon sounded coy.

Nigel clasped hold of his leaking self. Three rough jerks and he was coming, whiting out as everything softened around the edges; bucking desperately into his own needy grip.

“I promise… p-promise I,” he panted, knees ready to give way. “I’ll get… g-get _better,_ Simon I… I-, you know I, I’ll get better.”

“Better?”

“Gotta learn… shit, what your body likes… what it can take, you know?”

Nigel forced open his eyes, Simon now had his pyjama bottoms on and a loose fitting white shirt. He held out the tissue box, Nigel ripped out a couple to clean himself off best he could.


	33. And It’s Me You Need To Show, How Deep Is Your Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from The BeeGees’ _How Deep Is Your Love _.__

“You owe me man, for the carpet.”

“Carpet?” He posed, following Simon’s glance down, not wanting to note what he saw. What together they both had ruined. “Shit!”

He couldn’t help but bark out a laugh. He couldn’t help but breathe a deep sigh of relief when Simon did the same. _Thank fuck._

“You dress fast.” He pointed out unnecessarily, tucking himself back in with a groan.

“I _undress_ fast.” Simon retorted, beady eyes wide on Nigel’s hands as they retreated to his sides.

Both boys were flushed, eyes bleary and small pants could still be heard. Nigel focused his gaze up, training it to land on Simon’s face and to stay there. Fortunately, he found it no where near as hard as it could’ve been.

“Is it weird that we, you know, Simon, did _that_ with Andy in the next room?”

Simon barked out his laughter, seemingly thoughts of the third Taylor had slipped his mind.

“Hope he didn’t hear nothin’!” Simon retorted, still struggling for breath.

The bassist chuckled in agreement, near breathless. Breathless and beautiful.

“… We need to talk, please.” Nigel braced himself for the blow: to be told ‘no’ and to ‘get the fuck out.’ It didn’t come.

Instead, Simon sat down on the edge of the bed. He beckoned Nigel to do the same.

“Johnny, there’s something I want you to know.”

He straightened up, unable to look directly at Simon.

“I _know,_ ” Simon paused, sounding ever so unsure of himself again. A scent and a sound, he’s lost and Nigel needs him found. A sight that Nigel never wants to see. “I know you’re an… an…”

“It’s okay,” Nigel interrupted. “I know it’s a hard word to say, taboo and all.”  
  


“No, I’ll say it. You’re an, an… bloody hell, I can do this.” Simon tilted his head upwards, pausing for a breath. He composed himself to look Nigel right in the eye. “You’re an _Omega,_ Johnny.”

He gulped audibly, another wave of tears threatening to burst Nigel’s dam. Nigel couldn’t believe he had said it.

“I know you’ll… you’ll need a mate, someday.”

“Y-yeah Simon, how do you—”

“— Your scent.” Nigel nodded, curtly. “An alpha knows. I know about the heats okay. I know you want me, I think I might… yeah, I think…”

“You _want_ me?” Nigel blurted, shaking all over. “‘Cos what we just did, tells me you do.”

That earned him a hand on his chin, angling Nigel down to hold Simon’s gaze. He could’ve sworn he stopped breathing for a moment, getting lost in those swirling galaxies of baby blue.

Simon’s voice was rough, growing in intensity. Growing in conviction, demanding to be heard. “Fuck, I _want_ you. I don’t think I’ve ever wanted you more.”

“You… Simon, you do?” Nigel spoke wistfully but small.

“Though after last night, the drugs,” there was a sigh, a shaky breath. “Johnny, I don’t know if I can _handle_ you. Your kind needs to be protected, cared for, I hadn’t made any moves in case I…”

Coughing, Nigel shuffled away ever so slightly. “Couldn’t stop yourself, Simon?”

He nodded, shameful. “And then you go an’ do _that_.”

Nigel didn’t stop to think what ‘that’ explicitly referred too. Too many times, too many _more_ times.

“Even with my… oh, you know, what’s the word?”

“ _Advances?_ ” The singer snorted, bottom lip quirking up.

“Yeah… Christ, I can’t apologise enough for that!” He became frazzled, tongue being tossed about, words rolling faster than he could handle. “You know, at the club, the other night, or uh… bullshit, what we just did!”

“Don’t. Don’t go there now, I’ll get over it… the Runner stint, I mean.” Simon raised a hand to him, he wasn’t sure whether he could hold it yet. “You don’t have a pair mark, do you?”

Nigel shrugged, he’s far too young for that. Right? Far too young for true love and a life partner.

“Alphas can make or break an Omega’s body. The last thing I’d want would be to _hurt_ you, my Johnny.”

“Hurt me? Simon, you could _never_ hurt me.” _My Johnny, there it is._

A sad smile crept its way onto Simon’s plush lips, he retreated his hand and placed it beside him. Close to Nigel, no where near close enough.

“I tend to go for women John, I need to make that clear.” His sigh was strained, Nigel wondered why Simon had felt the need to state that. “I may want a woman again, someday.”

“I know Simon, I know.”

“Though that doesn’t mean I haven’t well, you know, with men too. You’re the first… well, maybe the first, the first man I’ve ever seen that I… fuck!” A tear let slip, Simon swiped it away.

“Wait, why are you…?” _Crying?_

Simon blinked back another, focusing his gaze back on Nigel. “You’re the… the most beautiful boy, uh _man,_ I’ve ever laid eyes on.”

“Really?” He really felt a sense of pride at that.

“Yeah Johnny, specs and all.”

Nigel’s tongue dropped down to his lips, running slowly over the bitten bottom one. He could taste Simon, he could never forget what he tasted like.

With a huff, Simon’s red rimmed eyes dropped, then again landed on Nigel’s. They spoke volumes of broken trust, trust he’d want to amend. “I know you did what you did at the Runner, Andy too… keep it away from us, whatever, I need to know you’re _safe_. I need to know I can _trust_ you. You want this band to make it big, I need my bassist first and foremost…”

“I’ll make sure you have him.”

“But, I think I might just need this little Johnny too.”

He chuckled. “Of course.”

“I just don’t think, Johnny, I’ll be able too…” The front man sent a heavy glance down at his hands, bringing them up before him. “Keep my hands off of you. I don’t wanna do anything, you don’t want me too.”

Now he was smiling. Big, goofy, showing far too many teeth; Nigel was smiling.

“You can never hurt me. I like havin’ your hands on me.”

“You do?”

Instead of Simon hearing his reply, Nigel kissed it atop the back of his hand instead. His own grip was sweaty, yet he didn’t let it falter; he let Simon hold his hand. Properly, for the very first time.

“I don’t want to be a father any time soon, John. You don’t want that either, right?”

“Lord no!” He tossed his head back, giggling, slapping his right knee with his free hand. “Can’t take care of meself yet, Simon!” Their laughter rang free for a couple moments. “Though uh, I will admit, I am a little… you know, hesitant, to take this further ‘cos of that.”

Simon nodded his understanding. “You’re now of age, I get it. I wish I could help you, through those heats. But I agree, I don’t want you stuck in a situation like that or anything. Not yet, you’re too young.”

Nigel could’ve cried at those words.

“Not until you’re ready, baby. We don’t have to do anything, you don’t want to.”

Even if it meant he couldn’t feel Simon in him, couldn’t open up to him just yet: Simon would await the day that Nigel felt comfortable to take the step. When Nigel trusted him, to love him down the way the bassist deserved.

_Ferry said it’s love._

“You alright, luv?”

_We said ‘alright.’_

Simon flushed, it was absolutely adorable. Nigel followed that gaze down, how his hands fiddled with the hem of his shirt.

“I like that, in your accent.”

Nigel found himself giggling, bringing up a hand to his mouth. He quickly removed it, like Simon told him to a good two and a half months ago now.

He found himself smiling, dropping into an even deeper Brummie tone. “Simon, _luv_.”  
  


He pulled a face in silent retort, Nigel sniggered. “… It’ll take some gettin’ used to, I suppose.” The front man cracked an ever so small smile, Nigel’s heart leapt in his chest. “I can find my own way.”

“Cuz I’ve got my own way.” Nigel breathed, rising to standing. He held out a shaking hand, silently asking for Simon to take it. He didn’t have too, though if he did Nigel wasn’t sure he’d know what to do with himself.

Simon took it. Eased himself back up to standing, a little woozy.

“Let’s get you home, Jean’s probably worried sick.”

“Shit. Right! Thank you for dinner.”

“Thank _you_ for desert. And erm, Johnny, if you ever wanna put your hands down my boxers again…” Simon rattled off, smirking.

Nigel was more than a little flustered.

“Not until you’re ready, baby.” Simon repeated, insistent.

Nigel had no clue just how many more times he’ll end up hearing that. How many more times _John_ will have to live it.

“When you want me, Johnny, give me a sign.” 

Simon held out his arms. Turns out, Nigel did know exactly what to do now that Simon had taken his hand. Nigel found himself pressing his lanky body into that open and supportive frame, deciding this is where he needed to stay. Where he should stay.

“This ain’t going to be easy, Simon, you know?” The bassist spoke, pressing his nose into Simon’s sweaty neck.

“If we’re really going to make this work, we keep it away from the band. From rehearsals and all that. Just us, together.”

“Together.” Nigel nodded. “Wanna come round mine tomorrow night? Watch a Bond film or two, after I’ve ‘ad me glasses fixed?”

Simon cocked a brow. “You a Bond fan? Who’s your favourite?”

“Connery, has to be.”

“Well said. Not gonna try and _molest_ me again, are you?”

“Erm…” He flushed, beady eyes dropping to his feet.

“Cheeky, cheeky Nigel!” Simon winked. “I’ll be there, say six?”

Nigel beamed.

Together they walked out of the bedroom, they both really needed to wash their hands…

“And Tuesday, maybe I can show ya’s round a little bit. Canon Hill park, perhaps?”

“Sounds great, Johnny. If the weather holds up!”

They’d take it one little step at a time, Nigel was content with that.

“Shite, did you two fuck already? Thought you’d be gone longer, or could Johnny’s _little_ Johnny not handle ya wrath Sim— ow!” Nigel sniggered as Andy bought a hand round the back of his head; where Simon had clipped him.

“No! And not that it’s anybody’s business bar our _own,_ you prat,” Simon snorted, Nigel was chuckling in that same cute way he adored, “when he’s ready, he’ll give me a sign. He’ll catch me breathing, even closer behind.”

“Faggots.” Andy joked, before strolling past them, humming. A few do-do’s, he really had a melody in that. Nigel liked what he heard.

“Are you getting the 45 bus or did you walk?” At the door, after thoroughly washing both sets of hands, Nigel found himself really not wanting to let go. He had had a hell of a weekend but this, idly, loosely touching Simon’s fingertips as they swayed was by far the highlight.

“Walking, it’ll take a while. ‘It’s nice though, summer breeze and all, you know?”

With a chuckle, a swift kiss to his nose, Simon replied: “Hmmm, I know.”

So was the goodbye kiss; what a highlight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Home stretch, here we come!


	34. We Can Be Together, Walking On The Moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from The Police’s _Walking On The Moon. ___

“Another drink, Simon?”

The two were quick to hog the Taylor family’s old, patterned sofa. There were rips in the fabric, a zip that would no longer go up… Nigel wouldn’t change it for the world. He was so cozy, lengthy limbs spread out, guarded by Simon, who lay behind him, face buried in his neck.

Nigel craned his head, watching as Simon replied. “No thanks Jean, I’m too comfy to get up to hold that cup!”

A small smile graced her nude lips. “Nigel, luvvie?”

He shook his head, he was still feeling all warm and fuzzy from the hot chocolate (with three marshmallows, always) he’d drank before.

“Okay well, dinner should be done by eight. Lasagne, hope that agrees with you Simon.” Her voice was wistful, drawing her son’s attention from Sean Connery romancing Ursula Andrews on screen.

“Absolutely ma’am!” Simon chuckled, Nigel shivered as he felt those little breaths pelt the back of his neck.

With that, Jean bid them farewell. Nigel snuggled in tighter, drawing his eyes over to Simon as the end credits began to roll. 

“Luvvie?” Simon parroted, cocking a brow. “That’s adorable.”

A shy grin crept onto Nigel’s face, turning back to Simon. “Yep, that’s Mummy. Adorable.”

“I have a surprise for you, let me up.”

“A surprise? Simon, what?” Nigel shifted, voice trailing off as the familiar oh-so cheeky glint flickered in Simon’s eye.

“Be a dear and pass us the guitar?”

Nigel did as instructed, wondering why Simon had bought Andy’s six string here with him. His eyes followed Simon’s fingertips as he secured the strap around himself; hunting for his chord.

“And the lyric book, in my bag.”

Nigel pawed through, retrieving the prized possession with a giggle. Simon flickered to his page and Nigel span around to face him, crossing his legs and letting his chin rest in his hands; smiling so wide.

_The page… he’s turning to…  
  
_

“I hope you like it.” Simon cleared his throat, Nigel’s eyes widened. “And maybe I can help you find your way tonight, I think you will agree…”

_The angel!_

His strums were soft, a little messy but Nigel adored the effort all the more. Simon’s voice cracked, he tinkered with his key. Then things were flowing ever so soft, ever so mellow; Nigel couldn’t help but gleam.

“Eyes _Like An Angel,_ so wide, don’t lie. You’ve never felt like this before. Fly _Like An Angel,_ so high, this time. You’ve got your senses, Johnny, streamin’ free!”

“Do, do, d- _do_ , do, da, da, da-ahh!” Nigel barked back, laughing through their little melody. His little accompaniment. “It’s _beautiful,_ yaknow, Simon. Who’d you write that for?”

Simon eyed him, mouth contorting into a moue. “Sometimes you really are as dumb as a post, aren’t’cha?”

“… Point bein’?”

“ _You,_ you bloody moron! Oh, one more thing. My bag!” Nigel again passed the backpack over, Simon excitedly pawed through his things. “Here!” He handed Nigel an LP, _Regatta De Blanc._ “You said you didn’t have no albums by _The Police._ Now when I come here, I can hear them!”

His smile could’ve threatened to split his face, Nigel was sure he had never seen a sight so wonderful. “That I do not! Now I do! That’s so sweet.”

The LP was brand new, still sealed, too. Nigel couldn’t wait to spin it, with Simon’s smooth voice intermingling with Sting.

“Happy belated twentieth Birthday, baby.”

“Thank you, I love it so much _luv_.” Nigel’s own cheeks ached from smiling so much.

And then he was crawling, though he didn’t have much ground to cover, into Simon’s open arms. Together they pried the guitar from him, Simon carefully secured her back in her case. Then his lyric book joined the television guide atop of the coffee table.

Slowly; Nigel pressed his hands to Simon’s strong chest and leant in. Lips searching for his, forever growing stronger in Simon’s hold.

  
***  
  


“It’s here, it’s finally fuckin’ _here!_ Woah, eyeful!” Andy hollered, prying the bassist’s shy lips from his front man’s neck. “Don’t bite him Johnny, you’re no vampire.”

Sniggering, “and yet I’m sat ‘ere, in this ruffled whatsit, red lips and smokey eyes…”

“You pasty faced twit, yeah John.”

“He’s a fledgling, Ands.” Simon winked, Nigel chuckled into his cheek.

“Whatever. C’mon, let’s hear it.”

A band meeting was called. The five of them, Paul and Michael Berrow too. Nigel’s eyes were wide, he had been dabbling with this new white powdery thing he’d only just now found was hidden in a super secret vault out back. He was a little jittery but felt alive, that was okay. In fact, it was great!

Nick was holding their sacred tape. From their whistle stop tour of London last month, when Simon had been dared to take the mic; to finally layer his voice atop of their backing track.

“I like it. It’s really good.” Roger spoke, nodding the bassist’s way.

The Berrows were quick to show their enthusiasm, their glee, demo ringing out throughout the small space. Though they were still in the very rough stages, the tape still nowhere near ready for an LP, the demo was a damn good start. Finally, Simon could he heard. Shining, shining with Nigel any which way he can.

_Planet Earth_ sounded amazing. They’ve really come far in these few short weeks of having Simon here.

“I think it’s about time, lads.” All eyes focused onto Michael, Simon visibly perked up and Nigel couldn’t help but giggle.

When the boss’s words rolled, he could’ve sworn there were tears in Simon’s eyes though they may have been clogged by his own teary gaze; and his latest edition – contact lenses.

“Wednesday July 16th, we’ll have you on the bill. Don’t let us down, boys!”

They were finally ready to play the _Rum Runner_. They were being given the chance, neither band member knew they could blow it. Nigel wasn’t even sure how they could possibly blow it, posse being led by Simon Le Fucking Bon.  
  


When the meeting ended, celebratory hugs, high fives, cigarettes and bottles were tossed all round. Nigel was near swept off of his feet, Simon’s hand was on his waist then he was span around for a congratulatory hug. The bassist very quickly decided that goddamn, was he a lucky guy. He wanted more.

Spinning around, Nigel was quick to plant a ruby red kiss to Simon’s cheek. Lipstick cherry coating a whole new lens, one that he truly couldn’t get enough off.

“So, Duran Duran huh? You’re really going to stick with that?” Simon sniggered, the whole group erupting with a _hell yeah!_ “Fine! I guess it’ll stick… eww lipstick, John!”

“You know we made it through thirty four chapters of this, without even sayin’ the band name... Way to ruin it!”

“We… we did? Wait, chapters?”

Nigel winked.

“C’mere, luv.” String worn fingertips were quick to swipe the last of the lipstick cherry from Simon’s inky cheek. And look at that: Nigel’s fallen. Fallen hard.


	35. Voices And Other Sounds

Swinging his bass around his shoulder, he chuckled heartily as he ended up whacking an amp. The small stage quivered with that one bass note, pulsing through the club.

“ _John!_ Christ!”

“Sorry, Charlie!”

Turns out Simon preferred it spelt ‘—L-E-Y’, they’d been writing letters for a little while now. But after confessing he’d been writing ‘Charlie’ in his diary – _yeah okay, you can say diary!_ – Simon was quick to change his mind. It made the little nickname more special in a way, Simon being addressed differently by his luv.

“Shall we say, _Sound Of Thunder_ from the top?”

“No! _Tel Aviv_ is the opener.”

“Yeah, let’s play that one first!”

“Simon, you warm up that voice already!”

****

**_DAY: July 16, 1980_ **

****

Their mini sound check had gone well. Now, they were rapidly approaching show time. The club was filling up, it was surely strange to not be the one on the door anymore. To be watching from the inside, knowing that _he_ was the one all of these teens had come to see.

_Not bad for a Wednesday night ‘eh?_

“Five, six, seven, eight!”

**_TODAY IS: The first performance of a lifetime, there’s no turning back._ **

Simon sent a sure-fire glance the bassist’s way with a wink, _Tel Aviv_ flowing through the Runner. It was his first time wearing his contacts on stage, he was really a wreck. _Chill out!_

**_YOUR NAME IS:_ **

“John!”

_Looks like somebody has his first groupie!_

“Roger!”

He hunted for that familiar voice in the crowd. The Runner was alight with punks, goths, new wavers… there were a lot more frills these days. _Romantic_ looking, a little vampire-ish, he supposed.

“Andy!”

Though none of them could dull her voice, her cheering them on.

“Nick!”

Giovanna sent a smile his way, before directing a very clear wink to Roger. He couldn’t help but smile, _Tel Aviv_ fading out and _Night Boat_ kicking in, the couple were really blossoming. He liked to think he played his hand with their cards, nicely.

“Simon!”

“We want to be the band you dance to when the bomb drops!”

“What the hell?! Christ, Simon!” Andy was laughing at his side of the stage, Simon’s left. The guitarist a step to the left, the bassist a flick to the right. That fit, nicely. He’d catch the keyboardist way out west.

“It’ll happen, Andrew, you know it will! This is _Late Bar_.”

The audience erupted under Simon’s command, he really had them wrapped around his little finger.

“I think it’s about time you meet everyone!” Simon screamed down his mic, abandoning his tambourine in favour of shimmying the bassist’s way. “First off, lemme just get a little closer! We have the _alarmingly attractive,_ Mr _John_ Taylor himself!”

_There were screams, listen to the screams!_

“And Mr Roger Taylor, holding a solid beat on skin and brain!”

_Since when did chicks scream in here?!_

“And over here,” Simon practically slid halfway across the stage. “Is the crazy _axe_ -man himself, Mr Andy Taylor! No relation, let’s make that clear.”

Frets of pure power sounded, _way to go mate!_

“And at the back there, give us a wave!” Nick complied, grinning like a loon under all that makeup. “Mr One. Finger. _Rhodes!_ That’s synthesisers.”

_Planet Earth_ was next, the bassist caught the front man’s eye. Simon sent a final cheeky grin his way, this was his track to shine on. Bass burning up in his hands.

“Voices and other sounds! We want _Duran Duran_ to be the band you dance to when the bomb drops, let’s make it happen! Can you hear me now?”

He’s fallen, fallen hard. Dazzling under his own spotlight, lipstick cherry more than ready to coat Simon’s lens. He’s fallen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there we (almost) have it! Thirty five chapters is plenty for this but keep an eye out for my real finale to this story, backstage at the _Planet Earth _set.__  
>  _  
>  _As always, lots of love to my wonderful readers. ♥️ I believe I’m coming to the end of this series, though this fic is a perfect start to the Hold Tight saga - I’m incredibly proud of my Nigel character and his growth here. Though there’s not much left of Nigel, the world is making plans for him..._  
> _

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr @duranarchy-in-the-uk  
> ❤️


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